What I Hate About Cities
They are mind-numbing, overwhelming– a microscopic segment of the Earth where ten thousand million things are crammed in together. The disparity between social classes is magnified, and sometimes, that’s unbearable. We’re all rubbing elbows, brushing past one another, clamoring for space, for resources, trying not to get trampled to the bottom of the economic food chain.
It makes people cold. And hard. And mean. Personalities reflected in the dull, heavy, unforgiving brick and stone, the wind tunnels created between buildings–concrete and icy gusts thrashing your senses. City-dwellers stare and sneer with contempt; they assume the worst in people because they’ve seen it.
Everyone’s in a rush, but no one moves fast. We’re forced to share so much that we forget other people entirely, and common courtesy becomes ancient history. There are no compromises. There is no compassion. Bad attitudes are contagious, and they spread like the flu; it’s a cesspool of the unhappiness disease here, and yet people keep flocking to it. We build up and down to make space. Cram more in. Make it fit (but it doesn’t fit. Nothing fits.)
Other settings have a seedy underbelly, but cities are a seedy underbelly. Crime finds its way through the cracks, which are everywhere. Robberies through broken windows on even the nicest blocks betray a scarred soul even beneath the grungy exterior.