Hospital beds

Nine-thirty a. m. and not a soul around. I made my way down cliffs I've known ten years under my bare feet, the steps as satisfying now as then, picking the best rock upon which to perch oneself, computing proximity to water, direction of sun, of wind. My skin already warm with morning rays, I dove right into the chilly water, kicked off the dirt and grime and worries and fears. Long strokes carried me further and further out into the glittering sea; with my head under water I heard the monotone buzzing of boat engines leaving for open pastures. I was, for a moment, completely content.

Returning to this city is always such a strange homecoming. A twilight of security and alienation. I do not belong here, but it is my home. I know this shortcut, I've loved that brick building. This ocean has the right degree of salt to it, this sun turns my skin the right shade of nutmeg. This dialect has the most comforting song to it, and this tram follows tracks and trails I've loved a decade. I know this city, and I love it unconditionally. Despite its monsoon chills and dirt, despite its small stature and humble means. The days pass, long rows of difficult hours in a quiet hospital wing and I am exhausted, but when each one ends with a ride through streets that saw me grow up, I am revived anew.

I love this city.
But you can't go home again.