A traveler returns to his childhood home. The city was the home of the enlightenment and the birthplace of the Renaisance.
It seems like a lifetime since I left. I've been nearby, passing in my travels, but never have properly returned to my home. The moist soil now under my horses hooves was likely the very same grit burried under the edges of my boyish fingernails.
There was a time when I fit into this place like a puzzle piece. I was a cog on a wheel in a gearbox that cranked out examples of man's potential for beautiful creation. That rare quality that we inherited directly from God. I did small things here. That's the plain truth. But for every plain truth, there is a hidden one. The hidden truth is what I still carry in my heart. I gathered the berries that collored the paint used to create masterpieces. I stoked the fires that fanned the flames that guilded the bronze figures. There is some part of me left in the arched stone piazzas of this old city. I just don't know if the city will remember. My gut feeling is that the old place has changed. I've likely changed a good bit myself.
Outsiders are often feared. I should know. I've felt the fear in a few places. I've been shunned in darker places. I've certainly been a stranger in stranger places. By the looks of that new gladiator arena, the dark ages haven't left this place untarnished. I guess, at least, we have that in common.