on possibly being lost in the city

it begins as an invitation, the city.  waving at you from across the narrow strait where there runs a ferry twice daily.  from across the steel blue bridge, visible for a few more miles because everywhere else around is as flat as the island.  all the mountains are across.  all the terrains, including the bowl of clouds where trees and streets play corners.  the city a bit hazy at the mountains' feet.  a bit teasing.  a bit farther from easy reach.  a bit closer than you can possibly imagine.  also, a bit safe from the humdrum, from the saltiness of sea breeze, from the roads that are still in states of ongoing construction.  from the humidity of it all.  

if you heed what begins as an invitation, the city becomes.  what it turns into, the moment you cross the strait, narrow despite the ferries, in spite of the stillness of the steel bridge, and all its promises of clear visibility.  it is not really: by the mountains' favored feet.  not really in a terrain you've known; not really.  not inside a bowl of cumulus clouds, not anywhere near.  not hazy, no longer teasing now that it is no longer waving at you from across.  it has turned itself into:

a labyrinth

of streets, of walls, of people lost walking and working.  where exit doors are farther and farther from easy reach.  only as close as you can imagine.

you hear:  a false fire alarm, a few laughter from a building; and the you in your mind begins to dream of the saltiness of the sea breeze and all the roads you once knew that were in perpetual states of ongoing construction.