Wandering around cities is what I do. If I can pick up a waif or stray to join me then so be it, but more often than not, I tread paths alone, winding my way around the streets and stopping to gaze at things that capture my attention for no mere reason other than impulse. There is no method but simply a desire to walk and see.
Canterbury for me is a city that I could tread with my eyes closed, so familiar are the paths and weaves. When I trot along the cobbled streets, I move in no direction other than where my heart pulls me. It often leads me to familiar places, the creature of habit that I am. I stop to look at spots where moments past have befallen.
That bench by the church where he told me he'd never love me. Or that shallow part of the river into which I fell, intoxicated by cider on my 20th birthday.
That corner where I wanted to kiss you but couldn't find the courage makes me happy that finally we did, in exactly the same place just days later. These memories come back to me fleetingly and fill me with little surges of pleasure and sometimes, a bittersweet sense of sorrow.
When I come to love a city, I fill my heart with fragments of my life there, lending each and every nook an ambience. The streets fill up with whispers of our history and a light that is all our own: burning embers, a slow licking flame or a roaring fire of feelings. Entwined with the lights of lives past and those that burn in our presence, a city is a master storyteller. If you take the time to wander its streets, it'll tell you a tale or two.
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