Tonight the world looks familiar but it does not feel the same.
The streets are where I left them. The buildings still hold their shape. The same lamps buzz above the cracks on the footpath I know by heart. But something shifted and now everything has changed.
I wobble in the middle of it.
There is a part of me that wants to turn back. Back to what I knew. Back to the rooms I memorised so well I could move through them in the dark. Back to the old comforts even if they were small, even if they asked me to shrink beside them.
But when I really look behind me, the path begins to distort.
What exactly am I longing for?
Was it safety or simply familiarity wearing the mask of safety?
I can almost see it now for what it was: a song drifting from another street, beautiful and enchanting enough to follow. But that song was not for me.
Looking ahead asks something harder of me.
The future does not arrive with guarantees. It does not kneel beside me and explain itself. Even now, with a clearer gaze than I have ever had, I cannot fully tell what is promise and what is projection. Some horizons glow beautifully because they are real. Others glow only because they borrow reflected light from around them, nothing of their own.
So I stand in the tension of that.
I want guidance. I want a voice from somewhere wiser than me to call out across the platform and tell me which train to board, which road to walk, which love to choose, which self to become.
But the station glass offers only my reflection.
And there I am.
Not finished.
Not certain.
Not rescued.
But here.
I laugh at the absurdity of it. I smile at the tenderness of it. I could cry for all that has fallen away and all that has not yet arrived.
Then somewhere in the distance, something opens.
Not a miracle.
Not a map.
Just a way forward.
No guarantees.
I take a breath out.
And with whatever grace I can gather, I waltz into the unknown.
Urban Solitude 