There once was a boy who loved where he lived.

He loved his apartment with its blue carpet and his very own room. He loved his neighbors and how you could see the lights on in the houses from the street. He loved how every day in his city was an adventure — the changing art on the walls, the people of all colors and styles, the open doors of strangers and cafes.

The boy loved finding places to rest in his city, where he could lay on the grass or the sand or on a bench and close his eyes. God, I am thankful for my city, he’d say.

One day the boy woke up with a strange feeling in his heart. He was irritated with the loud noises coming from outside of his apartment. He craved the cleanliness and predictability of a town that didn’t need to have early curfews at night. He stopped wandering outdoors and would instead stay inside, dreaming of a new place to call home.

The boy wanted to move somewhere else.

Months went by. The boy’s longing for a new home grew stronger day by day.

One day, the boy was on the bus when a stretch of closed streets forced the bus to take the long way around. They were passing by a street when he realized… Hey, I know this place. I used to love this park!

The boy got off the bus and walked to the park. He sat on the grass. I still love this park, he couldn’t help but think.

It’s hard to love the place you live when you want to live somewhere else.

Maybe I needed to not love where I live, in order to want to live somewhere else. Maybe it takes the same amount of effort to love where I live and want to live somewhere else — and I can’t do both. Maybe it’s hard to be grateful when you’re fixated on something that you don’t have. But if I always love where I live, how will I ever live anywhere else?

Written in August 2018