A place called home

Where I live is a mystery, dear friends. But I can’t help wanting to tell you about it, because it’s a place that has shaped my heart and earned much of my deepest affection.

It’s big. There are thousands and thousands of people here. It buzzes with life, and joy, and empathy; it lights up my nights and rises above my days. I have not been here long – I was born and bred far away – but it has made me welcome, and become my sanctuary.

It was here that I began to write for other people. Here I knew despair, and I was comforted. Here I found comrades in arms and simple acquaintances. And here, before all other places, I have staked my claim and called it HOME.

Surprising that I feel the roots of a place that was only a name to me, not so long ago. Be it ever so humble… but it’s not. It’s the White City, the land of dreams made real, the quiet and hidden forge of idea and imagination.

Not the actual White City, for those of you familiar with Erin McKeown’s song. But my White City is like it. It’s a real place, don’t worry.

I wish I could walk along its streets with you.


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