This city is etched into my soul. As much as I want to travel, this will always be home. I was sitting in Market Square, birds flying, people walking too and fro, and this music of street performers echoing down the way. There were so many people there; there were so many different stories coming together. Some were happy stories. Some were sad stories. Something felt so right and so happy. All the shallow conversations, the strumming of guitars, the creaking of doors opening and closing–it was sort of the cities hallelujah. All the people there had the city as part of their story, whether they realized it or not. One day, that balloon man might find purpose. One day those street performers might be someone great. One day that couple might be a family. One day those homeless people might find a real home. One day I might be a writer, or a missionary in another country. But right then, we were all there. We all are going to take different paths, but right then our story was taking place there. The city you grew up in will always be a part of your story. This one shall be part of mine.
I adore the place I live. Despite the fact I swear my heart belongs in Time’s Square or somewhere in Iceland, this is home.