I didn’t cry. In an odd way though, there were times when I missed the friends, even the family, of my real home out in the suburbs. It’s a hard emotion to explain to someone who hasn’t felt it, but the presence of cars and skyscrapers has a way of making you fully terrified. It makes things vivid. When you’re in the city, really in the city, you see things you never saw before, you pay attention to everything. You ride the subway. You become part of the subway and you share the same space – you breath air together, you get off together. On the other hand, I’d already moved to the city; but I was nostalgic; I missed the suburbs with the same passion that Martin Luther King had once believed in peace, or the way Ghandi believed in the power of morals. I figured my life in the suburbs was over. If it hadn’t been for the constant ache in my heart, I’m sure things in the city would’ve worked out fine.
But it was loud.
At night I had to sleep with my ears plugged. That doesn’t sound so terrible until you consider that I’d slept in quiet all my life. I’d lie there with the traffic and sirens, then after a while I’d hear the rolling of a subway come on. I’d squirm around, covering my ears, half nuts with sleep deprivation, and pretty soon I’d start remembering how peaceful the suburbs had been at night. Quiet, I’d think – how could I get a little quiet? I’d remember how nice it was to hear the crickets, and how the bullfrogs were so natural and rhythmic, and the way the trees kept swaying with the breezy summery wind.
The nights were miserable. Sometimes I’d roam around my flat. I’d head down to the kitchen and stare out at the 7/11, out across the street, and think of how nice the country made me feel. I wanted to just sleep!
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