Somewhere in the heart of the city, I lost a portion of the butterflies that Toronto used to fill me with. I used to dream of residing in the midst of it, surrounded by chaos and the bad-asses that roam the streets at lunch hour, and then once again at five'o'clock. I would leave my glamourous apartment in a polka-dotted outfit and round Armani shades, and I would make some trips to cute little boutiques, and bakeries, and breakfast bars, and book stores. Occasionally, I would gather the girls, and while sipping martinis just briefly past lunch hour, we would exchange disturbing details of our love lives that range between the plots of a hardcore porno, and an intense thriller with moments of comedic romance. Just kidding. Sort of.
I would embark on some solo adventures, smile at strangers, and have long Starbucks dates, just gazing out the window and watching the stylish but pretentious folks on Yonge street, who I'm probably no different from by now. I would splurge on expensive chandeliers and blouses, and on the occasion that I decided to stay in, I would drink champagne accompanied by truffles, before I dived into my white platform bed with the subtle spring breeze greeting my skin. My sheets would smell of lavender as always, and the tender grey walls would make napping feel divine, even if a sleep during the day could never find shelter in my heart. Then I'd awake an hour later and spend the remaining hours of daylight lounging in the prettiest panties ever, and pulling Pascal off my book shelf for a tender mind massage over a glass of wine.
When my hedonist alter-ego made her way out of the shadows each night, I would spend my energy on my lover and we'd get lost in gently tugging at each other's egos on long walks in the cemetery, and many other things that I don't dare mention. He'd be an escape from my chaotic life as I balanced university, a job at a rehab hospital, and the newly developed anxiety over grown up life. But despite being in a momentary and euphoric love, the future would be out of our hands, and my only concern would be how he'd creep up behind me next, and what tactics he'd use to make me his proverbial b****. The beauty of it all is at the core of our conscience, we would genuinely care for each other.
What made it so lovely is I'd awake on Sunday morning, visiting my parents as per usual, and the darkness of what I created would blur to the splendid Sunday afternoons of coffee, and lunch, and shopping trips, and conversations with my two fluffy dogs. Then Monday would come at me, wrapping me into a familiar cycle of important meetings, and research papers, and ladies' nights, and fancy lounges, and a very steamy love affair, that, combined with everything else, was exactly what I craved. So that was that - the picture I painted in the centre of my eccentric mind came to life in the heart of the city. It was like Toronto transformed me into a single thirty-year-old with a glimpse of what life is like in Sex and the City. And despite all of this, it seems as though the spark has been missing, leading me to fantasize about a German countryside.
The chaos has spread over me like an infection, poisoning my desire for some laid back days on which I continue lounging in panties, but the expensive, silky bath robes do not matter for a moment. I chill out on my oversized chocolate brown sofa, watching seven episodes of Lost in a row, and thinking of how awakening it would be to live on an island for awhile. Well, not that extreme. Sunshine doesn't do so well in the sand, but I'd be lying if I told you that I haven't been dreaming of a German countryside, in a cottage-like home, surrounded by complete quietness, except when the birds decide to chirp. I wouldn't be in and out of meetings constantly, I would just sit in a sun chair in my adorable backyard, writing to the world of whatever came to mind.
I'd spend months at a time there, freeing my worry-filled mind with thoughts of nothingness combined with serenity, and if the day happened to come where boredom finally captured me, I'd hop on the next plane back to the heart of the city, to begin my hunt for chaos once again. But before I'd catch a flight to Toronto, I'd hop on an old school train and observe the countrysides of a foreign land. I'd make impromptu stops in small villages and have authentic cappuccinos in the cutest German cafés. I'd also befriend an old person who happened to speak English and we'd exchange stories for awhile. I would listen more actively than speak, and then I'd make my way to home sweet home, somehow discovering that my love for Toronto has been rekindled.
I would realize in that instant that Toronto is my one and only, and we'd live happily ever after, until chaos whispered filthy things to me and stole me away for awhile. And even if I was stolen away, Toronto would take me back with open arms each time, because my presence in its heart would be vital to its existence. The chaos whispering in my ear would lure me away into distant lands that vary from Germany to Dubai, but Toronto would be the only unchanging variable. Toronto would always be my one and only.
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