New York, it’s the place that I now call home. The place where the mad homeless man cries on the subway, and where the pigeons fly.
I’ve found a place here already where I find myself comfortable in. A job to call my own. One where I hear mexicans sing their hearts out in the freezer when they think no one is listening. A place that claims to be on the ‘higher end’.
I walk through the city parks. Bask in their glory and am daily overwhelmed with with the magnitude of how high the sky scrappers reach. While not to mention how many they are. It boggles my mind. I don’t know how a place like this is even possible. Yet now I call it my home.
It’s a place full of history. Where my idols, the likes of Kerouac and Dylan, called home.
A city where I feel out of my element. Yet at the same time embrace and love. For I find growth in my discomfort. I’ve learned that the mad frenzie that the city has to offer either grows or kills the soul.
In my case it has built upon the layers that have since been laid.
The future is scary. Sure. Yet it’s so full of promise. One where it is brighter then the sun, or as dismal and ordinary and any other unmotivated dreamers reality. I can only hope for the former though.