The City has always had stories beneath stories. An unwritten history shaped over decades, centuries, by hope, calamity, debauchery, progress, laughter, love, art… and altered states of mind.
Most city denizens move between the skyscrapers, the apartments, under the overpasses, up the stairs, down the alleys, oblivious to the imprint pressed just below their toes. Down amongst the roots, in amongst the tunnels. Myths and stories, spirits and memories, we don’t have modern words for.
Someone recently took notice. They’ve been paying attention. They’re leaving messages. They ask, “Have you seen them?”
This caught my eye. I’ve felt those things.
The City breathes. It has a pulse. Many pulses. Some of them distinct. Some of them move you. Others wait.
Sometimes a protector. Sometimes a conspirator. Sometimes watching. Sometimes guiding. Sometimes mischievous, pointing down dark alleys, tempting below, pushing to explore.
Sometimes to a fault.
But always with a lesson.
The City. My teacher. My muse. My chaperone.
I can feel that pull again. That flow. It guided my hands, my feet, for so many years. It’s nice to feel that familiar caress. That tug I never did quite understand.
It’s time to follow.
It’s time to look again.