I told my mother of my heart before I left home for the city. In her eyes I don't grow, I still play with dirt. I told her of an award (one which I shall attain someday) that she knows nothing about, but I saw trust in her eyes. I assured her of my safety in my travels, and I heard concern in her voice. I painted for her my visions in an attempt to ease her worries, and I saw love in her eyes. Now, here I am, in a treacherous beautiful city, dreaming, and surviving on my mother's prayers.
I have always known who I am ever since I could join one word to another to make a meaning, but it took a few turns before I realized that this was it. I have always loved without restraint; it is the language of the gods. I treasure the infinity in purity because good lives on even if it goes unnoticed. As for me, art is pure, and in its purity I find eternity. And the sense of it makes me. I am a living piece of art, dreaming of eternity.
The city is wild. The city dreams. The city wakes. Since I stepped off the metal vessel, I have been dreaming awake. I know of a person losing sleep because she can't have her eyes on me as much as she would like, why would I? In this city, the lights are always on, and the beasts are always hungry. The weak wait and the steak grows slim and cold. The fierce grow bellies and the lazy wear bones. I am in this wild city, awake, and trying not to go to bed with an empty stomach. Please tell my mama I am healthy and doing well.
"I have a dream." It is true, I have a desire that set fire in me. I burn while chasing and I burn wanting. I dream in the morning when the light beats the darkness, and in the evening when the day rests to allow the night to have its turn. I dream, with my eyes peeled, in a city where men scheme and women blind. I dream of plenty in a city that rarely gives and mostly takes. I dream. I dream. I dream. In the city.

© Ommie