Not in a bad way, I suppose. Although I'm trying to see it in a positive light.
So there's that.
It's a grey that I've warmed up to over time, gotten to know like a scalawag learns an untouchable girl over sipped, gifted drinks. The grey--the dead trains and crumbled homes and parking lots crackled like toffee in the cold--it's all I see from this window, all day, every day.
But it's home. It's work, which is just as home as home. Detroit has that effect on people like me, people who use it as the beacon for explaining home to strangers who've never been. An hour north? You're still from Detroit, and it owns you just as securely as the kids playing in its city-limit streets.
But it's home. It's work, which is just as home as home. Detroit has that effect on people like me, people who use it as the beacon for explaining home to strangers who've never been. An hour north? You're still from Detroit, and it owns you just as securely as the kids playing in its city-limit streets.
It's not so much the grey that gets me. Grey isn't bad. It's the void, the lack of anything else, and the way I burn to fill that void, just like the rest of us who say we're from Detroit. We want it to glow.
Part of me wishes that's how my story would end, in a blaze so fierce it left Detroit glowing in its wake. Speramus Meliora; Resurgent Cineribus. We hope for better things; it shall rise from the ashes.
Part of me wishes that's how my story would end, in a blaze so fierce it left Detroit glowing in its wake. Speramus Meliora; Resurgent Cineribus. We hope for better things; it shall rise from the ashes.
But it doesn't end that way. I would be able to see that glow already, if that were the case. I came here for the thrill, the danger, the adventure, and that's what I will find--but Detroit, much like the untouchable girl and the scalawag, will not find those things in me, because at first glance, she will not think to further look.
