Here in these deep city lights, By Alyssa Seal

Here in these deep city lights
By: Alyssa Seal

I miss the trees and the ocean. I miss running with deer and the long, quiet, dark drives home late at night. The scenic backroads that occupied idle summer afternoons. I miss bonfires on the beach and late nights in the field. I miss watching the ocean rage as rain tears down and lightning cracks the sky. I miss the feeling of the grass between my toes. I miss standing in my backyard in the cold, letting go of the warmth of Summer and welcoming the Autumn and Winter to my home. I miss the feeling of a fresh breeze on my face, instead of the piss and dirt polluted stagnancy of this concrete hell. And I miss the view of the Earth outside of my window, instead of these towering manmade lights crafted to imitate the stars we’re told we’ll never reach.



I’ve discovered that city people can’t drive, because they can’t get more than five feet without having to brake. I miss the freedom of driving (and sometimes I even miss the speeding). I miss the natural heat of wood burning in the stove; the kind of warmth that smells like home and doesn’t feel like sickness. All those trees you murdered to make way for a new apartment complex or shopping center were used to keep a family warm through the winter. Not that the city knows much about resourcefulness.

And I miss my own space. I miss having a backyard, and not hearing footsteps above my head as I lay in bed at night. I miss my neighborhood, with its tress and cozy little homes. My job around the corner, where the regulars knew about my Saturday night mistakes. I miss my home, my kitchen, my family I never saw because I worked my time away…

I was promised a beautiful life here. I was told the city would be my mecca, that everything would fix itself and be wonderful and promising. Note to self: never listen to the promises of a hopeless romantic who never grew up. Oh, and never, EVER listen to a city boy. Why would I believe the promises of someone who couldn’t grasp the concept of the life within a tree? Why did I think I could teach an urbaner the secrets the Earth whispers in a cool Autumn breeze, or why she cries in the midst of a hurricane? You can’t teach a citiot the value of the freshly harvested corn they’re driving two hours home, or what’s so special about that field “down yonder.” And they definitely don’t get that every small town survivor is not just another uneducated redneck hick, or that work boots and torn blue jeans are sexier than any suit-and-tie wearing businessman (yes, this means you, sir pretentious-Wall-Street-wonky-eye, with your inability to hear the working man’s cry). And for some reason, if you look another human being in the eye and give them your word, it means nothing here. What a mecca I’ve found.