Where All The Lights are Bright

Y'know what I'm missing? Pollution. That definite sense of my lungs not being as pure and clean as they should feel. Stepping out of my building in the morning not to faint natural scents and pollen but of petrol fumes and bin overspills from the back garden.

And police sirens at night. Trying to sleep past 12am on a Friday but never getting the total serenity I need for peaceful slumber. Voices outside; movements in the building; slammed doors. Friday's "good time" feeling goes on from dusk to dawn but I snooze and I lose. Except here in this city with its endless pulls and possibilities, nothing really feels like a loss.

And the suspicion that these pulls and possibilities are everywhere - I have never quite seen everything. This village I type this from, I have explored every street, with each rural mystery unfolded, every potential Instagram moment captured and uploaded. In the city I know there's much more to every corner; more bars to go to, more art galleries to visit and more people to meet with better stories, bigger egos and brighter futures.

And I miss the acceptable laziness that comes with everything you need being right on your doorstep. Why take buses when you can take paces? I like to roll out of bed knowing that only metres outside the door there's my next meal, my next outfit or a pint with my name on it.

And the comfortable knowledge of just being an anonymous face amongst relentless bustle. Walking around with that spot that won't clear up or wearing leggings that give everything away. Not fearing that you'll bump into the hot guy from that tutorial or your friend with the skin that never ceases to glow like the street lamps of Dumbarton Road. A stranger might catch your eye and you may being embarrassed by the state they've seen you in but then, they're already gone. You won't see them again. You never do.

And the feeling of being part of something that is much bigger than you are. The unease you feel with being at one with a gentleman's armpit on the subway on a Saturday morning. Elbows pushed into your ribs and newspapers pushed under your nose on public transport, your scruffy boots amongst the endless shiny shoes. Confidence that if you were to mouth such blasphemies as "after you, I'm not in a rush!" then god knows your footsteps must have less value in them, amongst the bumping bones and silent "sorry"s.

I miss a city that reels me in and tries to spit me back out. I miss being startled by the noises, intrigued by the people, dazzled by the lights - childishly bewildered, forever enthralled. I am, after all, just a country girl who is in way over her head.