Maybe you aren’t living in the city you always thought you were living in. The trees you see outside your bay window aren’t made of leaves and branches and wood and sap, but instead, of all the times you asked your parents to build you a treehouse while you sat in your room, fantasising. Maybe all those questions and thoughts combined, over the years, and shifted from the realms of intangibility to tactile objects.
Maybe you aren’t living in the city you always thought you were living in. The buildings you see, while you walk down the streets, are measured not in feet or metres, but in hours and minutes and days of frustration, hard work, and panic. These buildings are not just buildings: they never were and they never will be.
Maybe you aren’t living in the city you always thought you were living in. Maybe its always hiding something from you. Maybe it shapes itself as you shape yourself. Maybe you will find your memories hanging like ornaments from the Christmas tree in the park, someday. Maybe you will find your deepest fears in the graffiti in an abandoned subway station. Maybe you live in your own world, and the city is just pure fabrication.