Rolling in running shoes like the MTA schedule, I've found a whirl of humanity skirting from eye contact to no eye contact. From black jacket to black jacket. From phone to phone to phone.
The humidity that felt like summer became a winter without snow.
I watch kids on trains with matching braids paired with silver shoes squeeze together unnoticed while someone’s voice announces where we are and where we are going. We’re a community of tunnels. A community built on concrete beneath well-dressed bridges itching for glossy individuality.
Names of stations that didn’t mean anything to us before are now an audible map of the place we call home. Sirens blaze, birds make do with what they can find, cars speak their own language, skateboards slam, waking neighbours shut doors, and worn out shoes wear their work.
In a seemingly absurd muse of skyscrapers, there is no skipping steps in starting over, again, in New York City. On loops of Central Park and Prospect Park and lower Manhattan, and all of the local tracks, I join the huddled masses to strive in a way that only this city loves to strive. Stretching to the edge of uncertainty to understand why so many citizens of the world flock to these gritty boroughs in the first place.
The city reminds me to remember what I forgot about myself. The creative work. The running. The coaching. The learning. The growing. The writing. The art.