As I step outside, the wind instantly slaps my face with a cold so sharp my bones begin to ache.  The city street is acting as a funnel - a cold, hard grey concrete shaft intensifying the bitter southerly.  But even when I turn right it continues to press me back, blasting off the high-rise buildings and blowing incessantly against my reluctant body.

The daily commute from my inner-city flat to the office is always a personal struggle, but today that walk stole my reserves.  

The cold, hard grey is infiltrating inside me.

I must escape this heavy, oppressive trap.  

The seagulls squawk their invectives, inducing in me an unpredictable rage to snap shut their beaks and whip plug their butts.  For obvious reasons!

With screeching birds appropriately restrained, I extend my mental experiment up and down the steel towers, all over the concrete pavements, hither and thither over the staring, glaring glass walls.

Glass ramparts reflecting Mona Lisa eyes, spying on me all the way, but not caring.

Daily watching.  Routinely ignoring.

Looking.  But overlooking.

Do they really see?

Does anyone really see me?

As I search, my breathing eases, unfurling a huge canopy from deep within.  Vibrant greens stretch high and wide - smothering the stark, barren grey cityscape, transforming it into a living network of growing, breathing life.  A cover of twittering hues of greens twist and spin, enjoying the rhythmic beating the wind pounds upon it.  The greenery sings in the breeze, providing a calm during the blasts.  

And so my mouth curves into a smile.

Someone smiles back.  He sees me.  

Alcoves of garden greet me at every door, colourful flowers, fragrant wafts, bunches of edible delights and trees offering fruits.  I walk under arches of blooming wonder, marveling at the richness before my eyes, underfoot and stretching high.  

There is a freshness, an invitation to wonder, to share, to connect.  

I stop and talk to a woman in a garden.  She is picking fruit for her children’s lunchboxes, little ones collecting some off the ground.  And there I saw it.  Earth.  

This city doesn’t just plonk itself on top of it, choking the life beneath, but nourishes it.  Earth.  

A city needs to house us, yet also sustain us.  Build upon, yes.  But give freedom to the whenua to breathe, to give life, to connect with its inhabitants.  What good is a civilised society if it cannot feed its people?  

As the woman straightens herself from picking the fruit, she offers me some.  They are communal gardens, she reassures me.  The city is scattered with havens of food and sustenance.  Beauty and diversity are sown in abundance.  

I gratefully accept.

And so I imagine this city I live in.  I cannot hold the image for long.  The frigid grey beats and berates me.  

My hand is empty. 

Seagulls screech, cars beep, reflections startle me, all jolting me back to the cold, hard city.  Where I ponder, is this city choking me, too?