“One belongs to New York instantly—one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.”
You wallow in the ceaseless sounds of the sirens and the impatient honking of the taxi drivers. The current of the busy sidewalks makes you feel diminutive. But you don't mind that. Melting into the mundane rhythm of the city, like the butter does on a warm sourdough toast, somehow, feels right.
This city instills you in how to find comfort in being alone. A city filled with so many people—you would hardly think that you would ever feel lonely. But you do.
Once the excitement of the bustling streets starts to settle down, you begin to rummage through the sea of faces of the strangers on the train, in the hope to find a remnant of warmth. You start to notice the way the grayness of the sky reflects in the faces of passing by strangers—how easily they find comfort underneath their blinding umbrellas on a rainy morning.
The angry drivers hide behind their wheels. The countless sirens. In some way, it all becomes a little more bearable. The homeless man bathing in the puddle of Union Square Park doesn't strike you as something crazy anymore. And the pigeons—the way they hopelessly hop around their one good leg, to pick out what's left of the Hershey's candy bar wrap, left on the ground—the New York City birds have a taste like no other.
Fettered to this routine feels suffocating and inspiring at the same time. This rhythm. This pattern. It seems to be inescapable. Yet, you can’t remember the times you tried to run away from it.
You stay here and watch the city unfold in front of you, every corner you turn, every train you take, it reveals itself to you a little bit more.