Dear Berlin,

I’m going to keep this short, because I hate goodbyes. But after nearly five years, I thought the least I could do is write you a letter.

Berlin, I love you, but when you snarl at me with the force of a winter blizzard it stings my soul and makes me question these grey dark concrete right angles. If only you weren’t so cold.

But I did know that if I was patient, you would apologise and we would orientate towards the sun and drink gin and tonics, stumbling towards the elusive question mark of what the night might hold.

One of the things I’ll miss about you is your imagination. All of my wicked, unconfined, and naked dreams feel normal in your presence. You deliver an urban safety, and sense of freedom from other people’s imaginations. The combination allowed me to accelerate towards mischief and mayhem.

But mayhem must end. And The Ending feels like smashing into icy pavement, to surface with gravel in your lips and broken glass in the palms of your hands. I’ve been in the blackest of black moods leaving you. I’m leaving with deep scars, but a newfound courageous hustle.

Occasionally you should stand back and recognise your messy, dirty, overgrown beauty. Listen to the sordid, socialist, capitalist, hedonist stories. These are the multiple lingual narratives that stitched you together.

Continue to be a mirror that reflects our dynamic selves. You’ve shown me new threads of my humanity, and I’m grateful I took the time to get to know you.

Ev

Evelyn Marsters is an academic research consultant and Deputy Editor at Impolitikal. She has a PhD in Development Studies from the University of Auckland. Read more by Evelyn.