This may be the first time I’ve been alone since moving here (I'm writing this after work on Monday). Solitude is fairly a nonexistent state right now. New York promotes this. My commute and completion of daily errands used to all be carried out by myself—now I’m in the busiest city in the world, squished next to some BO-reeking man while trying to get to my office.
This city paradoxically offers all the opportunities, culture and intrigue while still being terribly lonely, scary and overwhelming. Everyone here has a greater goal (“the plan”) at the forefront of his or her barista job. Every editor is using this job as a stepping-stone to get to the magazine of choice. Every unemployed person scrounges with temporary jobs to get to the permanent one.
No I can see why not everyone makes it or likes it or lives here forever.
I find this city intoxicatingly ideal. My polarized commute to work transplants me from my small, Spanish-speaking Brooklyn neighborhood to my office in Midtown where tourists block the drain and business-types are everywhere. Beautiful, beautiful things happen on the trains. People show compassion, quirks and insight. They can also be nasty, selfish and downright cruel. But it never gets (or rather, it hasn’t gotten) old.
I welled up on the train the other day because of this great Regina Spektor song. It was then that I realized that no matter how lonesome I get here, which I really haven’t been sad or homesick yet, I still have this magnificent city to call my own.
I’m a part of this place, and I am absolutely head over heels for it. It’s invigorating and difficult. It’s the only place that has made me feel like even when the bad comes as it inevitably will come I’ll be able to combat anything with the awareness of the people, place and home that is New York City.