New York

I'm from a city of ~2.3 million people. 

I'm from a town that you could blink and miss while driving, county route 23. 

I think to myself today that I miss my home. But I am home. This is my home too, these people are my people. 

I think of the bush, the yarra, the heat of an oncoming summer. 

I think of brown snakes on the goat's trail sunning themselves in the afternoon sun, the gums singing in the breeze, the shifting patterns of shadow they provide. 

I think of my friends. You know who you are. 

I love this country here, but the country I learned to love was a few close family members and a specific feeling of being in up state new york. 

Now I'm in the city. It is busy, people worry about the same nonsense they do all over the world. I see through the myth, I see through the advertising, media, prestige. 

I found an anarchist book collective. I'm going to volunteer. 

I am excited by the amount of friends I don't even know that live here. I can feel their presence in this place, I can almost hear their stories. 

I know I must return to the place of my birth. I know this endless dream of travel and exploration of the world will one day end. 

But I push on, every day, knowing how little I know. Waiting for fullness. 

Nobody cares where I am from. Nobody cares what I have seen. That is the most sobering and beautiful part of this place. Insignificance. 

I aim to disappear; I don't want fame, fortune or public recognition. 

I want to live here, learn what I can and move on.