I have this thing for cities.

I like my places to remind me of who I am, I guess. Neurotic, constantly working, never sleeping, and always on the go. Cramped, lonely but never alone. Bright and alive on the outside, mysterious and a diverse range of impossible emotion on the inside.

When I visit New York City I feel this way, as if I am looking into a mirror and seeing my own reflection. I feel comfortable in the chaos because it matches my own persona. It’s when I become physically isolated, like in the countryside, that I feel the most uncomfortable. I am not calm and I am not exactly what I seem to be. That’s why I like my cities.

Boston is different.

Boston is a city on the outside. Its streets are filled with people headed places and doing things, with earbuds blasting indie/folk tunes into their faraway brains and a subway system that brings back the comfort of my New York City. Only in Boston the people wear jeans to work. They stop by the marketplace at lunch for a different cultural experience each day and they drop all of their duties to fill the streets outside of Fenway Stadium on a game night regardless of their baseball expertise. They lay in the middle of the city on the grass and they stare at nothing but the sky and the world above them.

In Boston, I can breathe.



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