Exodus Entrada.

Dear City,

I've mostly been told letters are to be written to lovers, to the dying, and some times, to the dead.
Well, you've been a lover- perhaps the only man who's been worthy of an intimate relationship after the death of Christ. You're dying, too- all your allies, bridges, and red lights have been walked on.
And perhaps, you're dead- because nothing new fosters within you, anymore. It's the same grass that has now stopped looking greener on the other side along with yellow mornings and shifting sky colors from yellow to orange bitten with a tinge of pink which melts into a purple with a brilliant hue of navy blue that fades into the black with fictitious stars.
Thus, my writing to you is legitimized to the judiciary of my mind, and thus we may proceed.

So you've prided yourself a good deal with the million pairs of boots that hit the city roads every morning, the coordinated cattle of pedestals who zebra-cross the road with every red light, the green bills that make their way to the bagel cafes every morning for breakfast along with the overwhelming gray sky scrapers; in one of which a boy of fourteen sits on his piano and plays the piano every day at seven. You have to your credit every millionaire and the thousand or two migrants that make their way to your sheltered dome of dreams turned inside out reality. You have to your debit the invisible peddlers and those dreams turned inside out illusions. 

You're given a play by play of each and every self. A little side of you is ignited with every lighter that is lit, a certain avenue has a couple swinging to streetlamps, and every sixth cab has a story of life and death in process.
You're a busy boy, dear City. A genre of busy that I've seen and lived while thriving in you. The city lights are now unfocused and form vague patterns of bokeh. They're still gorgeous, but pointless. 
So there you go. Another immigrant of origin and an emigrant of compassion ; Nay, I have no hopes, desires, expectations or compassion for your gates and highways no more.
I've lived you, and you've aged while my toes reached higher on their tips to see beyond the Queen's necklace of your city lights. 


I hope for my absence to resonate within your territory which has no vacuum or extra space even for the citizens, let alone the goners. Nevertheless, I hope for you to at least let my hue run behind the trunk of my car, while I travel away to a new destination. A destination that would be the recipient of a similar letter, a few years from now.


You've been good to me,
A Traveller.

-Nil.