Ode to a city.

Part II: The City of strangers.

Would you know me, my love, if you saw me again? Would you? Would I know you?

The city has always beckoned us. The wet reflections of a neon on a pavement, the sad demureness of a yellow light on a lonely cobbled street, the darkness of its unexplored labyrinths; they all have beckoned us. And I, and you, and we all have given in. We have all walked the streets of the city. With each other, with friends, with family and in loneliness, we have all walked the streets of the city. We have sat on every park bench, looked at every man, turned all the corners. We have. But still the city remains a stranger, the people remain strangers to us.

My love, we were strangers once. We looked at each other from faraway lands, we looked for familiarity through dreamlike fogs. We passed each other on the pavements, our hands touching just a little bit. And we stared in crowded subways at the one standing right in front. We longed for us, didn’t we? But then all strangers do. That is the beauty of being one. All strangers seek another, look around for fondness. So did we, my love. We were strangers once indeed. And you took me in, I embraced you. And we spent the night on the large terrace, staring at the lights of the city. We made love like strangers, and lost ourselves in deep slumber. Dreaming of the city, dreaming of familiarity and the lost magic. We slept, hoping to see a different face by us in the morning light.

This city, is a city of strangers. I don’t know anyone, nor do you. No one knows us. But then, when we pass a coffeeshop, browse through a bookstore or just lift our heads to steal a glance at that woman on the other side of the road, do we still remain strangers? Somewhere in my mind, somewhere back down there, there always will be a moment when I passed that coffeeshop, or when I looked at the woman. Somewhere in her mind, will remain a memory of me. Then, do we not leave a part of us in every building we pass, every man we look at? Is it not familiarity? But we go on, we go on. We go on collecting memories, bits and pieces of people around us and we become a new person every passing moment. Transience, my love, is the only form of permanence. The city teaches me this. Every night I walk down the same old street, amidst the same old faces, and still it’s all new to me. The magic remains forever, floating like an impish fairy in that empty space between us. The magic remains in the air. And we, my love, remain strangers forever. To us, to the city.

I wouldn’t know you, my love, if I saw you again. You wouldn’t know me. And we will be trapped in the arms of the city forever.