NYC: Where Dreams Go to Die

The Real Me

Sometimes, we forget who we want to be. When we were growing up we had so much faith in ourselves, so much hope and confidence in the future; it was innate. There was no doubt that you would become a marine biologist or fourth grade teacher or famous actress. There was never anyone or anything standing in the way. But somewhere along the way, life happens. And when you look back, you realize that you didn’t achieve your dreams, as silly as they may sound. Somehow, when we grow up, those dreams change. But where along they way do we lose that glimmer of hope and just settle for staying afloat?

They say it’s never too late, but if the future is now, then why does it feel so far away?

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fairytales

Well, maybe this city isn’t for everyone, after all. Maybe life outside Manhattan IS real life. Maybe we’re all living in a fairytale, waiting for something better to happen, while bright yellow cars drive by and the concrete under our feet is louder than our thoughts.

Realization

She was being revitalized. Right before her eyes. And as she walked, one foot in front of the other, she continued; every step for those who couldn’t walk anymore. She knew she had not been finished. She knew there were pieces to put back together, before it was too late.

Sometimes

Maybe sometimes New York has you. Maybe sometimes, it’s out of our control. Because you never know where a night will take you or how a night will end. There could be a new something or someone.

This is Manhattan, after all. And the possibilities are, in fact, endless.

We just have to find them.
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COLD NIGHTS

In fact, a cold breeze at night really does keep you warm.
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Never Settle

You better search the world before you settle. You have no idea what’s out there.

The world is waiting.
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We meet a lot of people in our lives. Some are insignificant. Some are there for a reason. And some are just there, simply to change your life.

And you might not even know it.
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Instant Gratification

I’ve always had a problem with this. Perhaps It’s generational- everything we could ever want is given to us in less than 60 seconds with a gray bar racing to it’s fulfilled end, depicting just how fast those 60 seconds will go. Perhaps it’s just me. (I like to think it’s the former). 

Even in college, on the way home from grocery shopping, I, even behind the driver’s seat, could not wait to tear into a box if Cheez-Its, a pack of string cheese, or a nice creamy Baby Bell. (Or maybe I just have an obsession with cheese? See future posts for assurance.)

Or, perhaps it was a trip to the ice cream shop. “Perhaps I should dig into this while I’m still in the car”, prying the top off my sundae, less than 5 minutes from home, but unable to wait. Did this ice cream taste better in the car with the scent of Subaru fabric wafting up my nostrils with the burning of the clutch my father replaced three times stinging my senses in the background? (Probably burning because I was too focused on anything and everything else around me).  Was I a prime example of our primordial ancestors unable to control raw desires? (Both sexual and ice cream)

I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

With New York. Or so I thought. I moved to New York seven months ago with this ridiculous notion that I would kick New York’s ass with the tenacity of Samuel L. Jackson-meets-Chuck Norri-attitude and something fabulous would happen to me- I suddenly would be strutting down the sidewalk in a pair of Loubitins and swipe plastic as fast as Kim Kardashian gets married. Paying rent? No problem. Fancy weekend dinners at swanky restaurants? OBVIOUSLY. The world would just JUMP into my arms and embrace me. What a tool. A naive tool, at that.

MAJOR FAIL. I just, (I use the term “just” loosely, aka 7 months ago), moved from the middle of NOWHERE. I worked for three years for an amazing organization in the Catskill Mountains - no cell service, no internet at home. An hour to the nearest shopping and entertainment. The daily entertainment was a fire at night with cold beer and friends. A warm, cozy cabin for one. (And sometimes 2. Maybe even 3 on the weekends. No, it’s not what you think.) Money was never an issue. There was always a paycheck. There was always someone to cut my grass and plow my driveway, (thanks John W and Kenny W.). There was always someone to turn on the generators when a huge summer storm wreacked havoc on property (thanks Dave P.)

There was always money every two weeks, steady as the protestors at Zucotti park. Ah, life was good. Fresh air everyday. Amazing friends just a few feet away. An awesome man at my doorstep.  And then, out of nowhere, out of the deepest parts of my young and confused 20-something brain, I suddenly decided I should move to New York City. Because that’s where you move to ‘make it’, right?

And now, here I am. In my apartment with a roommate who stuffs the garbage higher than Charlie Sheen could measure on a ruler. Alone. Drinking Bud Light Cans. Selling my belongings for cash every month. Wanting to punch everyone on the street in the face. Inhaling the scents of garbage piled two stories high on every sidewalk. Dodging cockroaches on the street. (And I’m never one to dodge a good, big cock). 

So here I am. Writing, as my chocolate molten cakes adjust to room temperature. Bright lights shining through my overpriced windows. 

Now what?