Alive. It breathes and pulsates.
And it has me.
I live in New York City. No, that's not right. New York City lives in me. When I leave New York City, I realize that I am not whole, not who i am. I have none of the zeal, none of the livelihood, none of the driving intensity that comes with my life in
NYC. How often do we actually hear silence when we're in the City? Well, each time I leave the City, that's what gets to me. The silence. If you're in New York City, listen:
. . . .
There is no silence. You can hear it, too; I know it. It calls to you, sings to you. And you sing back to it.
The hustle and bustle of the financial capital of the world. The crispness of the Big Apple. The fame and fortune of those who have made it. The misery and discontent of those who haven't. None of this matters. These are simply bits and pieces of the greatest city in the world.
That is its secret. Not its network of subway tunnels, not its hidden gems. The secret of New York City is that New York City does not exist -- it is experienced.
The whiffs of falafels, the cries of "Fiiiie dollahs... fiiiie dollahs!! Reeeeal Rolexes!", the little earthquakes of the 4 train rumbling beneath Lexington Avenue, the bite of the wind stripping the warmth from your body, the wail of sirens in the distance, the effervescent puffs of smoke from a cigarette dimly lighting a room... from these the ephemeral existence of New York City stems.
To those of you who have realized this secret, for this and for me I thank you.