Dear Owls, city lights.

Dear Owls, 

Somewhere on this round planet we found our lives on, there are people with souls blown in them. There are doctors, engineers, singers, dancers and writers. Hidden beyond the greed and hunger of rich men, there are those of us who try to get past a bad day by simply connecting again. Connecting to ourselves, to each other and even to the world. 

Somewhere among thousands of lands claimed by men that died over the years, there is a country with bright lights and tourism sites. There is a picture-perfect image sold to people who don't live there and people believe this is where they will/must find happiness. There are pictures of smiling children all over billboards and commercials, screaming out to desperate souls that are needing for love and attention. Desperate souls that need to feel young again; we're all children on the inside, we just got bigger externally as time passed. People come here to feel "alive" again, paying thousands of whatever the currency is to make their hearts pound like fists of angry protesters. They need to feel their hearts again. 

Somewhere in this country, there is a city. A city with broken hearts that did not find what they were looking for, just a bunch of lost souls with no compass because the commercials they had didn't have warnings.

Disclaimer: whatever you see in this well acted skit and on the well dressed, badly paid actors may not truly exist in real life. Your love life will not become better if you eat our tropical lies and swim in our artificial beaches that have been cleaned to ensure you don't get stung by jelly fish- life does that for you. Whatever you see in this propaganda we put together within weeks, will not last a life time. It will not give you "The BEST deal in town!" and it probably won't "Make you WISHING you lived here." 

Because, somewhere in this city there is a girl that actually lives here. She has never seen what her neighbor looks like and has one friend in her apartment sized life. In this city, there are so many bright lights, but none of them light a spark in her, none of them enlighten her life and to her, all the lights seem to flicker out and die eventually. She sees labor change the grass every week because it's plastic, she watches are they rip the old grass out from the soil and replace it with newer one, so new tourists can marvel at just how amazing this synthetic view is. Sometimes, she wishes she was grass, sometimes, she thinks she already is, sometimes, she worries she will be.

Somewhere on this planet, there is a child that grew up too fast to become a women, to please herself and others. There is a passion waiting to burst out of the pages of her diary, there is a song waiting to melt out of her mouth only to mold itself into a wax candle. She will lift a stand of betrayed grass that lost tourists once marveled at and use it as a wick for her exquisitely flawed candle and she will use the raging fire of little girls who got called names by those they trusted the most to light it up. She will light her candle because it makes her feel whole. She will light her perfectly imperfect creation because it brings her graceful thoughts, mediocre hope and glittering eyes at the side of her bed, wishing that this light never goes out.

She will light her candle because maybe city lights were never her thing.