Fury Occupies Wall Street

And there comes the time that the reality you've been telling everyone, even yourself, becomes real. And it’s all so screwed up that people tell you it makes you appreciate life, because it doesn't. And suddenly, you’re ironing, and someone’s late to your house, and it all breaks.

And you run away, but you don’t know where you’re running; you just like the pain on the soles of your feet while you stomp wildly in no direction. And you ignore the crosswalk signs, half because your tears blind you and half because even if the sign says walk or don’t walk, no matter how much you try to follow the rules, life is still going to run you over with a bus.

And there’s no where private enough to scream your lungs out. To scream and scream and scream until nothing else can escape your hoarse throat. New York crowds even anger. There isn't enough space to throw a fit and it’s just too loud for God to hear when you wail, “It’s not fair!”

I want to squeeze something until it explodes, dig my nails into flesh until it bleeds, throw my dishes through my 11th story window and watch the glass shatter on the pavement.

And I’m wearing her shoes, because 1700 miles separate us, and there’s no other way to show that I care. And I’m wearing her shoes, because they remind me it hurts. It’s like pushing on a bruise over and over to remember the pain. I’m wearing her shoes because now, she’s still alive.

And the people in the street keep walking, and someone’s late for work. A vendor sells stolen perfume and lovers eat ice cream on a bench. The clock is ticking and everything is the same – the world is mocking me, pushing us closer and closer to the time.

Unfinished New York, Unfinished Me

Scaffolding is a daily part of every New Yorker’s life. For most people, the scaffolding isn’t bothersome, but rather a shelter from the rain, a dry place to enjoy a cigarette. For a person with a mild case of OCD however, the planks and bars scattered among the city are quite troublesome. I search for completion, for consistency, for refinement. I constantly find myself asking, “Will they ever finish New York?”

I understand that New York City’s scaffolding is necessary for the structure they call the Big Apple to repair, improve, to grow. I know I should look at the beauty surrounding the metallic eyesores, that I should patiently await the project’s completion, and then appreciate the final product. But, like my own life, I often focus on the bad parts, living today only for a dream tomorrow. Everything will be better when I finally get the dream job, the dream boy, the dream life. Now doesn't matter and now isn’t all right because I don’t have those things, but when I do, I’ll be living the dream, I reason unreasonably.

What if, like New York, I always have scaffolding? Always have unfinished pieces of myself that prevent me from feeling complete? The thought makes me want to bulldoze down my entire life in a frenzy, makes me wish to be in a place that doesn't require repairs. Unfortunately, that is impossible; I know that the city that is my soul is old, beaten down, and broken.

When I take a step back, am I even trying to fix the parts of me that have lost vibrancy, sturdiness, and appeal? Sometimes, I think I just try to put them in the back of my mind, pretend they match the good parts of me, ignoring my heart’s leaky faucet. Maybe I just don’t know how to repair myself, or maybe I lack the scaffolding to even start.

Today, I was walking down my street, and for the first time, noticed a gorgeous building that I had never seen before, and realized that the glistening white and gold had been covered with scaffolding just a day earlier. I hadn’t known it before, but something beautiful was underneath the area that I previously had thought was hideous. Maybe there’s blocks of hidden pretty inside of me too, I thought. Maybe I just have to assemble the scaffolding and instead of trying to finish myself, maybe I should just try to start. 

The New New Yorker

"One belongs to New York instantly; one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years." – Thomas Wolfe

The thought is novel, believing that one will feel at home so quickly in a new city. That one will be embraced by their surroundings at once, that all the pieces will fit just like that, and that one will belong. To gather the courage to move across the country, I suppose one must think happy thoughts. The risk is just too great to consider the alternative.

I often wonder if I moved to New York to run away from my problems. My expectations of the city were so high, so I painted my dreams to match. I thought I’d be able to reinvent myself, that somehow my past couldn’t follow me to the East Coast. After all, there wasn’t enough room in my suitcases for my emotional baggage. I very well couldn’t wear yesterday’s scars in the city of tomorrow’s new Prada, Louis, and Gucci.

It has been much longer than five minutes, yet it certainly hasn’t been five years since I decided to become a New Yorker. I’ve learned how to hail a cab (without trying to flag down an off-duty car), my go-to heels have lost about three inches, and I’ve paid eighteen dollars for a pastrami sandwich at Katz Deli. To the average observer, I’ve graduated from tourist to local. Yet, I can’t help but wonder – if I truly belong here, why doesn’t New York feel like home?

I guess it’s hard to belong anywhere when you don’t even feel comfortable in your own skin. I guess when you run away from all the perceived bad in your life, and all you’re left with is yourself, and the bad is still there, you realize that it’s been inside all along, that there is no running away anymore.

All that’s left to do is to cry it out. New York City has stripped me of the masks I’ve used for so long to cover it up, and I’m exposed. Like the trash piled on every street corner, my demons wait to be thrown away, and frankly, it stinks. If only there was an express train to serenity.