I’m sitting in my apartment on the third floor, in a street-facing, third-floor apartment. This is a very loud corner in the East Village. It is not known for being a sanctuary. It is so loud. It can be so full of noise and chaos, compounded by the thoughtfully installed hard wood floors and economically installed single-pane windows. It’s a curse we are tied to by a lease. But, tonight, this cursed location turns into a blessing as strains from Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” drift up from the street level. And I think to myself, “How did I get here?”
if I can make it there, I can make it anywhere
What is it about New York that is so compelling? What is it that compels me? How can I be so enraptured in a place where I feel like I’m not accomplishing 1/8 of what I could be accomplishing? Why do I curse my body for needing a break on a routine (mostly daily) basis? Why do I love something that I am clearly unable to fully enjoy? I ask myself this when it’s late at night and I’m completing another day in which missed out on so much of the wonder, of the opportunities this city has to offer.
But then, it’s almost as if the city has been waiting for me. The things I’ve wanted all of my life have been dropped into my lap so easily, like I only needed to arrive and then, life goes, “Here you go, here’s your life.” Like I just needed to get here after going through everything I had to endure, just to arrive.