London

This haven begins and ends far far away from me. Its foundations passionately dig into the all knowing and never changing ground, sinking deeper and deeper until its indefinitely anchored to exactly where it is desired to be. This haven does not sway, but stands resolute and confident, fully aware of it's many talons grasping for dear life under the earth. The great, proud, regal city of London stands on, like it has always beautifully done, like it always beautifully will, and does not sway. The elegant head of this haven averts its weary eyes from the grotesque and corrupt lives below. It has no time for the hateful who walk its streets, its lifelines. The swaying locks of the city tumble as the head is averted from despair. It focuses not on the unworthy. The city knows every single person who ventures inside, it knows their fears and desires, everything. The people, in their hundreds and their thousands, line up to crash through the gates into the haven, wanting to be noticed, wanting to be understood. Everything is united within it's medieval walls. And still, this haven begins and ends far far away from me.

Despite this, I imagine myself there. I dream of it. I wish to walk its streets indefinitely, to be among the many who travel on decadent heel. Disguise. I disguise everything. In my comfort, my room, my sturdy wall is plastered with a disguise of where I wish to be. My haven is everywhere. I look. I stare. I do nothing but look and stare. Simple wallpaper, which means so much. The looming tower of Big Ben, which chimes and sings upon the hour, provoking upturned glances and upturned mouths. It is perched upon that bridge. I know this bridge more than I know myself. For when I myself am perched upon it, alongside the omni-benevolent clock tower, I feel it is my home. It is never ending, the depth and beauty of the city. It cannot bore me. Few times in a year I'll return to my haven, and each increases the love stored up in that special part of a person's soul reserved for place. My smile is offered to the city in payment, in gratitude, and it soaks up the sights with a greedy fervour. But still, I look away from my disguise in my loved room, and down at my feet, which aren't adorned by bridges. And it's true, that my haven begins and ends far far away from me.

It is undoubted that where I stand is beautiful. The rolling green hills show health and England, and like everyone else, I love it. I tell myself this. I say it again and again. I love the nature. I appraise the scenery with obligatory contented sigh. But my eyes seek out the buildings that aren't there, the towers, the people and the mystique that isn't in a field and not shown in the reflection of a lake. Rivers reminds me of nothing but that regal river in my haven, making me turn away from the beauty of nature. I trudge on, I am taught things, I gain things, I fume at where I am. I plan, within the year, I will at last, at last, be a permanent dwelling of the city. It drives me, the visions of never ending intrigue, away from the dismal town I live in.

London waits for everyone. It welcomes everyone. But city's too are made of glass. We polish it, prevent cracks, but every once in a while, a part of the city shatters. The bricks tumble, and it is unstoppable, like holding water in a loosely cupped palm. There will come a time when the city falls, like the Ancient Greeks' havens. Glass will be embedded in dust, and people who venture over will prick their feet from it, and remember. Then the wounds will heal and they'll stumble out of the dust and glass, and away to their own havens. But for now, it is in it's prime. The people are just as interesting to me as the golden city is, with their tales and their pasts. The elegant head of London snorts at the variety of people it has known. For many hundreds of years, always growing, always evolving, it gathered intelligence of the human race. It observed as ancient people traveled in row boats along the river and traveled along the roads by horse and carriage. It observed whilst its proud exterior was challenged in wartime. Destruction and horror descended upon this haven, but it resisted, like its country, like the people within it.

London is my haven, the place I most love. It still stands, regardless. Made of glass, or made of stone, it stays put, the fingers in the ground embedded and asleep. It'll wait for me. And at the moment, it may be far far away from me. But only for the moment.