Hell, New York City
New York submerged in a sea where the broken hearted turn to wade, on the prowl for a new love amongst the plenty of fish out there.
Despite what you’ve heard, what the colloquial “they” may have imparted on you, New York really isn’t a place to go to find people. It should not be the “sea” where the broken hearted turn to wade, on the prowl for a new love amongst the “plenty of fish” out there. “Plenty of fish” there are, though they do not see you. This lack of vision does not stem from the adaptive feature of prey having their eyes on the sides of their heads, quite the opposite.
The fish of New York see straight ahead, their sight guided by blinded ambition. They are not looking for company, they squirm and writhe amidst the concrete avenues, packed like sardines, simply to avoid it. There is the cliché of feeling “alone in a crowd”, lost amongst hordes of beautifully slender bodies, bodies that are intimidating...initially...until you remember that we all decay, and that happy moments are fleeting, and that your dog isn’t going to live that much longer and maybe you won’t either …
Hopefully not the latter, and in nothing but a timely fashion for the former.
But we simply do not know.
Maybe New York is a place to find yourself. That’s situational, though it was that place for me...but to be fair I probably would have been fine elsewhere. I have the privilege of most situations turning out “fine”. It’s definitely a place to be with other people, and slowly I am beginning to realize the who, not the where, is what I value in consciousness. Humans create beautiful things to enjoy with others humans, and there is pleasure in sharing a physical space with company who we feel comfortable enough around to silently enjoy a meal with. This pleasure is heightened when the space acts on you. It fills you. Occupying your hollow internal crevices with very densely packed burlap sacks of flour (whole wheat if you're already living in New York). The sacks are not heavy in a way that makes you feel uncomfortable, but you become aware of your movement. You realize your senses with sudden awe, and heavy-set gratitude.
This gratitude is not paid to an individual or a collective. It is yours, entirely, and for that reason we do not turn towards our natural form of expression, speech. We do not allow the crumbs of babble to escape our ponderous brains which are all too often chewing with an open mouth. We contain it. This selfishness is better, for the gratitude we feel supercedes language, it is experienced even by those creatures who lack the ability to convey their thoughts through tongue.
Shit my dog really isn’t going to live for that much longer.
Alas, we contain our stupefaction. We swallow. We inhale. We may cry.
I have felt happy both with edifices and without them. We rent, and sometimes sell our bodies and its actions to cities. Thus, maybe we owe them our emotions. I think it’s what happiness really might be.