the art of losing yourself in cities

They tell me I must be able to write about what makes me ‘me’,

Spill onto these pages what’s true, my identity 

Condensed for comprehension, watered down for consumption.

I usually have the words,

It’s hard not to when you’ve breathed the air of a small city. 

Aspiring this and thats with too much to say 

Without an audience --

Unending sound that resembles silence. 

I suppose that is part of what is true,

The calmness and the calamity that raised me. 

So who am I? What makes me ‘me’?

My deep love for the streets that raised me?

Yes, that is part of it, 

But so is my desperation to leave --

To leave the violent cascades of 3 a.m. rain onto empty roads 

And the constancy of all eyes on you,

Looking through you,

And come to a faraway land 

On the other end of the world, 

Where it still rains and it still smells like home, 

And the people still look past you,

But a place with nicer bars and the illusion of opportunities. 

I found the alleys and nooks and crannies

Of Terminal Avenue so that I can step into tomorrow, 

My tomorrow, that is still filled with burning passion. 

And the people are not yet my people, 

And I don’t know if they ever will be,

I suppose that’s what I came for. 

The city of Vancouver and the halls of building 438 

Welcomed me with half-open arms -- 

Me, with the same passions and desires,

The same likes and interests,

The same art clubs and philosophy classes, 

And dimly lit restaurants after hours

As those that roam the halls around me. 

The people here still look like me, 

We are made from the same cloth,

With a drizzle of honey and spoonfuls of pine nuts. 

I want to believe that I no longer want a home, 

I no longer want to belong. 

I suppose it is okay, 

I suppose I already have a home, 

A home I cannot look in the eye,

A home that has given me too much, or too little.

But the truth is, I cannot; 

Not in this strange, beautiful, foreign land 

Where the people look like me and yet 

I am pushed to the sidelines. 

After all, is it my fault 

That we look the same and feel the same, 

And yet we come from addresses with different area codes?