A Love Letter To Chicago

As I ran northbound on Lakeshore Drive tonight, I found myself caught up in not just the pace in which my body moved, but of my body in relation to the cars on the highway. The lights of the city and cars illuminated the navy night, and all of its darkness became visible. I was filled with overstimulation. My brain attempted to register all that was happening around me. I became curious of the city and its speed. For no possible pace I ran could measure up to the city’s innate bustle. My brain fogged up, and to my surprise came an uninvited thought. The first being that a city has the ability to break you down without the slightest bit of discrimination. The city is not concerned with your vanity so much as it is you being a piece to the puzzle. An infinite puzzle that knows no bounds. The second thought was that I am a piece to this puzzle. For all my bewilderment and search for meaning does not go unnoticed by the steel beams piercing the sky. The traffic built up beside me on the highway. The lights became dull as I passed by impatient drivers. The city and the world have a funny way of letting themselves be known. The moon rose over the lake. An immense ball of orange contrasted by splotches of grey. I came to a halt just as the cars beside me had. Bikers and runners passed me, all with their heads in a singular direction— forward. Was I the only one seeing this? The moon continued to rise, creating a caramel beam of light, all the way from the horizon to the shoreline, where there was me. I stood with hands on my hips and a head that tilted. It moved above the lake at the pace of a city’s cab, at the time it takes for a yellow light to turn red on State street. It rose until it became less of a spectacle, and more of a reason to stare singularly forward, incurious of the city, the world, and all their offerings. My head tilted the other way, still gazing at the moon. It was then that my face curled and tightened in the center. My bottom lip twitched, and tears rolled out. For no reason besides for the appreciation of beauty, and being able to call a spade a spade among all this chaos and speed. Runners and bikers continued to pass by, singularly, incurious. None of it mattered. The moon saw me, and the city saw me. They saw me for all my confliction and all my pain. They saw me for all my dreams and all my curiosities. They said nothing because I didn’t want, nor need anything in that moment, but to be seen. Nothing but to be considered as a piece to the infinite puzzle. It’s been said that you are not truly part of a city until you’ve cried in it, publicly. Chicago, I belong to you, and you to me, body and soul.