I was raised in narrow alleys between tower-blocks of convention.
Not even the streets and avenues were for my attention.
Just those alleys, New York-like, rubbish strewn, cabbage-aired, concrete and cobbles uneven.
The whirr of air-conditioning, smell of fast-food, and the certainties of both God-fearer and heathen.
Just once in a while, bursting forth into the sunlight, wide streets and avenues intersected.
Bright lights, success, and the beautiful people attracted.
Not for me, though. I didn’t even try to stray.
Preferring my defined certainty to the risks of a better way.
I have no-one to blame for where I am. Or perhaps I do.
Does blame transcend the generations for me and for you?
How much of what we are is really what we are? Truly our own clay?
Or are we just versions constrained by circumstance and inherited DNA?
But those tower-blocks, surely they were not of my doing.
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