Week.

Dear Karachi,

I've been wondering these days what to write about. When I'm walking around Moho I have words swimming in my head, and sometimes I stop to take it all in. It's breathtaking, really. Especially the way it is right now, empty and serene.
Today I sat at the Thirsty Mind and looked out the window, and it was beautiful. I used to dream about this place. When I'm walking around I find it hard to believe that it's been two years, that I made it here and that I've come this far. I find it hard to recognize myself.
But this place doesn't move my soul to poetry. It doesn't tug at me the way you do. I feel affection, not all-consuming love. I've been told to stop romanticizing you, but how is that possible? How does one do that? You have been my muse for as long as I can recall, my oldest love affair. Even your worst failings I remember with a certain fondness I reserve for those I love entirely too much. Sometimes I dream about your salty air, the seaweed smell mixing faintly with the scent of camel dung, and then it escapes me when I open my eyes. One picture of you and something feels caught in my throat. I can't look for too long.
And now I don't want to look at pictures, because I'll see you soon, and breath your air, and when I wake up, it'll be under your skies. I might close my eyes a few times, blink to make sure it's all real. And then I'll sleep better than I have in months because you will surround me again.

Much love.