Living in Sydney is like being head over heals in love with a beautiful person. On a good day, you can spend hours admiring their beauty, gazing into their eyes, dreaming about their wonderfulness. On the weekend, you can explore their mysterious lane ways and buy them flowers and jam at the saturday markets. Amazing time will pass by.

On a grey day, you can’t help but pick at their flaws, look for mistakes and feel frustrated that one and the same can be so incredibly beautiful and yet so incredibly annoying. You know inside that its not Sydney’s fault, yet you cast blame for all your own incapabilities. You don’t want to blame, its not Sydney’s fault, and blaming is not nice. You just can’t help needing to project your own dark side onto the city that kicks you when you are down, even though you know that it’s yourself thats kicking. You never leave because it embraces you when you are high. When you are away, your heart will carry the memories.

It can be so shallow, and it can be the most profound, the deepest love. So deep that it stabs you on the inside. Out loud, you say that you are completely platonic in your admiration. Purely spiritual, free from sensual desire. Everybody knows the truth, that you have fallen, head over heals. How can you not, when it’s licked your naked body in public, making you soar above its high rising buildings, between its dark warehouses, under its rich offices.

It has the ability to make you feel like a sophisticated socialite drinking champagne in the harbor on Fridays, a foxy lady in KX on Saturdays, or like a coffee drinking Boheme in Surry Hills on Sundays. A secret is not a secret if it is shared. That is the only thing that sets your relationship with Sydney apart from any other. You can share a secret, and it’s exciting, and it’s right in front of you, you’re living in it. And the theme music changes every day, depending on the the street your on. I thought I would never say anything as ridiculous as this: whilst it ruthlessly rips me apart, Sydney completes me.