This city has a different pulse than Chicago. It’s not working as hard. When I pass by, I don’t catch the reek of sweat, don’t see the pit stains, don’t hear the grunts. Madison is daydreaming. Its heartbeat is slow, and its breaths are deep. It floats along.

There was a time when I would do that too. Now I feel so grounded in Chicago that being back here would be completely foreign if not for a few comforting faces. Even the old acquaintances now seem as ghosts, slipping out of alleys to remind me of my past.

I used to see shadows of myself leanings against familiar walls, with cynical smiles and a restlessness of spirit. Even they are gone now. I feel almost nothing. I’ve felt this before, felt it when I’ve moved out of apartments. When every last box is loaded, when the floor is swept, when I am ready to leave and I pause a moment in my old room. I take a breath. This isn’t the room I was staying in. This isn’t my room. This is nothing.

We move on.