Week Eight.

Photo Eight.

Observations: If you knew me as a kid, a tween, a teen, or if you know me now you have probably hear me talk about wanting to move to New York City. For as long as I can remember that has been my dream. I am not quite sure what sparked this. Surely all the movies I watched growing up feeding me the romantic idea of the city of lights had something to do with this notion. As I grew up I also heard not so glimmering tales of my city of dreams. My father was one major purveyor of filthy and crime-ridden ideas gleaned from a 1970s venture to New York. However, the grime and crime only served to enrich my vision of what I had always considered the city at the center of the world. What good was a city that was beautiful and clean and safe? I want danger, and adventure, and sex and drugs. My New York could only be as good as it is with the bad simmering right underneath. Twenty-three years later I finally made it to the center of the world. As soon as I set foot onto the trash curbed sidewalks, saw a real NY rat, gazed up at the towering skyscrapers, slyly observed the black-clad umbrella-wielding pedestrians and yellow taxi cabs I felt alive. Everything in me screamed this is where I have always belonged. I wanted to stay. Everyday that went by I could only think about how soon I had to leave and how much more of this alive feeling I could suck out of the day. Yes there were shitty parts. I did get stuck in a subway. It was gloomy and rainy. My feet did feel like a thousand needles were stabbing them when I finally feel into a restless sleep each night. Even still, I couldn’t help but love every single thing about it.

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