bright lights

I thought it would be strange, difficult going back to Las Vegas after the way I left it, the time that's passed, who I am now. I thought perhaps I'd have a moment that was like vertigo when I realized I'd lived another life there, but that was a lifetime ago and it wasn't like revisiting your old high school, but rather more like moving through a room that you were made to wait.

I stood on the fifty-seventh floor looking out at the lights and I thought they were beautiful and was happy to see them again, but I didn't have the feeling that they belonged to me like I do when I look out a place that I really love. I didn't feel like the mountains were mine or that I possessed the stars. I didn't feel like it was my city, just a city that I admired somehow, faintly.

When I look out of the tall windows in my own New Orleans bedroom, I feel that the city owns me. I feel like it's laid a claim on me that I've taken comfort in, that I've allowed, encouraged, appreciated. I feel like New Orleans is standing just behind me with an arm draped around my neck gently, whispering in my ear softly that I should stay, that even if I go, I'll just want to come back and that no place will love me quite the same.

I'd thought when I was in Las Vegas I might slip into feeling that I'd gone home but I passed by the place that I used to live and hadn't even considered that I had until it was already behind me and out of sight. I've never come to New Orleans and neglected to look.

Even though I see the contrast, plain as day, it makes too much sense at the moment for me not to go and there are only selfish (maybe even irresponsible) reasons to stay. I won't go back to Las Vegas; I've had that life once before, but I'm on my way west, soon.