I find myself walking amongst my streets. The streets that I came after. If only. I don’t know this place. It doesn’t know me either. Yet, we share everything but a second n in the middle. When I was younger, I used to joke that the reason my shoulders were always tense was because I was carrying an invisible city on top of me, and the weight of everyone’s footsteps made me tired. I was young–I didn’t understand what anxiety manifested through the body felt like yet. But I had always wondered what this magical place was that my parents would share a sweet smile about. I never really thought I’d ever make it there. The city on top of my head would remain a place of dreams and imaginations.

Walking through Siena felt like stepping into a memory I had forgotten, trying to recall the events of something long gone, diminished. I should remember but I don’t. I should know this place. The cracks in the walls of the buildings, the dirt between the cobblestones on the street, the various nooks and corners, all feel like a memory. Not my memories though. But the fact that I do not possess them doesn’t make them feel unfamiliar. Living in someone else’s memory, the city on top of my head, the years of dreaming up an idea only to find that very idea to be something else entirely. I suppose I could have looked at photos, but I never really did.