It is the end of a somewhat calm last day at work. I enter the taxi at the main entrance of the hospital. The driver promptly leaves and the distant of vivaciousness of the British Indian radio rambles in the background on the latest deals of imported food available at stores close to you. The behemoth of the once great but now increasingly dilapidated University Hospital is behind me; her walls have known so much hardship, loss and gratefulness over more than fifty years of death and of prolonging life —at least I have known her for more than seven years.
A slow but gradually increasing stream of workers walks slowly but relievedly to the brutalist carpark to begin their commute home. We pass the roundabout which I have passed so many times. We take the overpass to cross above the motorway. I lower the window to welcome some fresh dry air from outside and drown out the radio with some of the wind.
The orange rays of the late afternoon sun spread across the sea of allotment gardens, reflecting onto the student accommodation building and shine onto my face which now feels warmed. The scene is simultaneously beautiful and hideous: most of the gardens are in despair, dried out or overgrown and with their sheds nearing collapse, the endless rows of terraced houses are aged far more so than most of the patients that occupy the hospital, stained by decades of relentless drizzle and a reluctance to renew the housing; but the merciful sun gives some colour to the houses and the gardens, the usually grey landscape is penetrated with some complexion; at this time of year, the grass begins to become green again and the foliage starts to repopulate the trees.
We join part of the main road and pick up some speed. The monotone rushing of the wind past the car window is a reminder that we are progressing, albeit somewhat hastily. The warmth and dryness of the air is a welcoming sign of the change of season as the evenings are becoming longer and more hospitable. This is a beginning of something new.
This place is one of persistent grey and stubborn rain that nurtures so little to grow, yet her people remain so optimistic and seemingly kind in their everyday; this climate is all they have known for their lives. I at least have lived here for some years, which at my age comprise a significant part of my life so far. I sometimes feel part of the continual attempts for politeness amidst the misery, part of the grey bureaucracy, the excitement for the mundane. But I cannot indulge in the perfunctory ways of her people and their relentless positivity. I remain with my innate greed for more, for the extravagant, and to be forever running and forever flying. I am almost envious for the happiness they hold for what they have.
This place has her beauty, of quaint history. The rows and rows of preserved homes that fill the city are a testament to the centuries for which people have attempted to settle here, although I have not. I have enjoyed the warm summers of long nights and reliable sun, of the sips of cold, sweet cider lying on the fertile grass of the park. I have savoured the crisp, fresh air of the winter, the seafront breeze by the bay as the sunlight glimmers over the surface of the water. The place is consistently dotted with the hungry yet cunning cries of the gulls that are as essential to the identity of this coastal town as the people who inhabit it. I will miss the coziness of the old homes, the warmth of the romantic summers, the mesmerisation of the calm sea, and the comforting presence of the gulls.
I am daunted to leave the comfort, to leave the enclaves of hidden serenity, where the quiet breeze passes though the trees, where the birds chirp nonchalantly on the lake, and where the silence of the uninhabited nature gives eternal consolation. I am daunted to return to the cacophony of busyness that is the metropolis.
This place has evolved my soul into once I am now faced with expressing each day. This place has taught me some patience. The humanity of her people, the significance of their individualistic stories and struggles, and the societal emphasis that places value in the human experience of life has encouraged me to indulge in my emotions and to foster connections that make me think, and feel. I am sad to leave —although not leave behind— the people who made me laugh and could make me feel love here, who perhaps were also not native to this place but who made the experience of life here beautiful and full.
I am reluctant to return to the impatient world where time is only commerce, and where thoughts are only calculated.
I but I am excited. I am excited for the change, to indulge in the cacophony of busyness that is the metropolis, to delight in the earthly desires and greed of the city. I am excited to progress hastily —that is, in my career. I am hopeful for a life moving forward —although not moving on— a time of sadness in leaving —but not leaving behind—, because I am not ready to lose the peace of serenity nor the comfort of reassurance of those who live here.
We continue in the taxi, progressing hastily, the warmth of the late afternoon sun shining on my face, the stream of wind from the open window rushing through my hair. The crisp, emergent spring air breathes some life into my heavy chest. I feel lighter for a moment, ready to dissolve into the horizon or someplace where my future is pulling me.
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