on City Lights

Last night Joe and I were driving down 281 through the new 410 interchange, and Joe said, "It's cool that they built that overpass, it looks like we live in an actual city now." Which got me thinking: we live in a city?
It's not that I don't love the traffic and the strip malls, but San Antonio doesn't really feel like a city to me anymore. Maybe it's because I'm going on my fifth year of living here--I feel like it's not just a city, it's where I live. It's the place that I sometimes call home. It's familiar, and it's routine. I suppose this happens to anyone who moves anywhere. I'm not special, I'm just saying.
So, in noticing these highway-brand City Lights, a phenomenon twinkled through my sights. It's happened to me quite a few times before, and I'm guessing that it will keep happening as long as I keep traveling. It's like this: I'm staring out the window of the 14th row of seats on yet another Greyhound bus, and I'm mesmerized. The Lights are just so, well, bright. They have that photo-lens twinkle that makes them shine in pointed rays. Even the lights on the Shell stations seem more friendly, more inviting. Red and blue and green and yellow lights entice me to visit downtown; white lights illuminate businesses and gas stations and strip malls that are almost invisible behind their bright and beautiful counterparts. Every single bulb in every single socket on every single fantastically-lit block of this city must have been freshly changed in anticipation of my arrival, and they're telling me I'm now passing through the best city ever.
...But Jeanna, you're in Tulsa.
It seems like no matter where I travel through, the Lights are always brighter. Shinier. More City-like. They're City Lights, and they guide me through this big strange place, beckoning me to come explore.
Of course, leaving the city, I watch the plethora of lights diminish down to the solitary lampposts overseeing the exit-off-the-interstate signs. And the next City's Lights do the exact same thing.