October 1, 2010
There is a luminance to this city. A magic. Maybe it's the venerability of the city. What it means to be a New Yorker from an outsider's perspective. Everyone walks with a purpose, resolve. And a secret knowing. Knowing how to make this metropolis work for them. They also sport this kind of worn, weary look as though just been awoken from a deep sleep. The lull of New York City.
There is a true originality here. And everyone is unfinished, constantly evolving into deeper parts of themselves. This city is rich for the imagination and the writer's mind. I see a hundred stories waiting to be written as I walk down the street. The New York City sidewalk scene never stagnates. It offers you everything in true individualism. I love this. Here I feel I can be the person I always wanted to be without judgement.
But then I wonder if I can always live on the edge of comfort, in the thick of passion and the grit of reality. I thrive with some room for respite and solitude. There are scant pockets of solitude in New York. I wonder if I can truly find these pockets in this ardent city. We'll see. I wish for a sign to show me the way. And then I realize that sometimes we need to make our own signs.
(Image found via The Sartoralist)