New York. A city where everyone has their dream.
It keeps people motivated in a beautifully chaotic sort of way. With a certain energy that is almost tangible. Where souls move a million miles an hour to compete with the million others moving a million miles.
At times you can catch a glimpse of these dreams and it’s inspiring. It gives one hope in a world that sometimes seems impossible.
But, the sad sinister side is that the island is not big enough for the million dreams. And to many are pushed to the wayside by the tide of our ambition.
I make my money at a restaurant in the upper west side and see some of these haunted souls at work. Keeping their hands busy at a trade that doesn’t satisfy their hearts.
Just the other day at work, before opening the walk in freezer door, I could hear through the cold metal a voice that belonged in a far away foreign opera. Not in the basement of another nameless eatery. It was a mournful cry with notes of longing and desire. The vibrato penetrated deep into my being. I hesitated to open the door, yet had to for a dessert. The song immediately turned into a whistle and a cook breezed past me. In that moment I understood why the dead lay behind his eyes. Another casualty of comfort.
A few days before a handful of us stood around in a circle, talking about dreams and aspirations. Of how we’d contribute to the legacy of man and where our lives would be one day. In that brief instant we were no longer waiters and bussers, but poets and philosophers, burning bright in a dimly lit back room. Although we were all to afraid to admit that we had no ideas of how to get there, or that this may be as good as it gets.
Everyday in the city you see those on the street that gave up on their dreams, or are performing their talent because they never made it. And perhaps not all want to make it. I shall never know. Each life is made up of to many complex threads to be able to tell.
Make no mistake however that it is a city of dreams. Greatness has been accomplished. You can see it in all the towers, parks, and monuments to man that litter the island. You can hear it prophesied in the whispers that come from those with a spark still left in their eye. They tell of what is to come. Of how we shall be led anew into the light of tomorrow. Where more of our dreams may be had.