SKeuolgy

To Whom It May Scopcern:

I, the centre of many and even myself, am perhaps given the rare chance to speak for myself. Of what I was, am and perhaps be. By describing my self now, i shall tell you all. I have length, but not width. Nasty shape, isn’t it? Is it the geographic confinements that my cradle is in or the hasty, non-contemplative acts of my all recent creators, which made me so? And yet, even though not possessing a circumferential central spot, I do have a centre that is a centre of all. The people that I house dwell more vertically in my downtown and the surrounding areas than they do in the suburbs where they spread in surface. Naturally, for some of them it’s “first come, first served”. For others it is the price to pay for the centripetal character that I bestow upon them.

I am what my centre is.

I have many children – mis barrios - that ought to please you no less than my core does. But do they? They supply you with existence, but a mere one. And when ever you are hungry for some more you come right into my heart. You can eat in them, but you most eat out in my quintessence. My little ones offer you an article, my spotlight gives you a neomania. They serve you a glimpse of fun, I endow you with the daylight and the nightlight of amusement. They educate your little beloved ones, from where I take over your teenagers and your freshmen. And that I do not only for my people but for the offspring of my little urban brothers and sisters. And I have placed so much attention to social intelligence, that i have displaced my technology crafts at the very suburbia, with fewer exceptions. But there are always some. And when you feel that it hasn’t been your day and your ‘locale’ can’t do much, you bring your physical and mental unrest right down to me. And every ladder up in your needs ties you even more to me. Let not speak of the facilities satisfying your fine and refined needs.

My centre even speaks of who I am, or at least was and maybe still am in some one’s memories, written or spoken. I was once a Roman, and a Slavic man, and Christian man, an Ottoman, and a Muslim man. And many man, but no man alone. Some of it still being lived in your days, some of which but a reified by objects left behind. I’ve been a place and time of building, destruction, rebuilding, cobbling, decobbling, a host of many lords, and particularly none. I am a witness of times that ceased and times that merged, of a complexity of the human difference, all heading down to my centre. I’ve grown out of it but never much away from it.

Finally, I have appearance, but not looks. I am a patchwork, a net of concrete jungle with interwoven petit greenery and damp, empty spots in between. The last being multiplied times and over as you move away from my centre. I have colours, but no saturation. Thus, I posses an industry of designers, but no Creator.

I am a self-centered and self indulged microcosm. And I speak pretentiously. But that is maybe who I am without you. If I can ever abandon you. Regardless of what, I do like you to love me for what I am, and not to dislike me for what I am not. Because, I alone am not my own genesis, neither my ascension. I am what many of you never were, what some of you are, and what all of you shall ever be. And yet, what makes me so different than any of my relatives. Well, I am sure that some have heard the now classic song: “…what a difference does a day make, and the difference is …”.