Bright.

Let me thrive here. Be alive here. Let me wake up each morning and never yearn, never dream of bigger or more vibrant, never needing to. I want to sell gems and crystals on Sydney Street, peruse the five floors of books off North Road and collect hats from Loot. I want to ditch my car and live on foot, spending supposedly precious time and money social networking while sipping burnt espresso or jade cloud green in the independent cafés; a different one every day. Drink a cuppa after waking while looking out to sea - actually seeing the sea beyond the rows and rows of red brick or painted pinks, tinting the sky and stretching past the pebbles. Breathe out the menthol air and envisage the earth beneath me supporting my weight. Map out the prospects, reap the rewards. See the thunder rushing over the bridge at the top of town, the lights and destinations a whirling blur as are the travellers - I cannot stand the thought that anyone would want to forsake this place, doesn't welcome the tide as it pulls them in, that their therapy is as mine is to be there, to get out to somewhere better.