By Evangeline Douglas
This is the New York of..
Grand, Huge, Intoxicating.
Like a pubescent empire rising from the concrete.
Images of money and influence branded upon the walls of the capital of hyper consumerism.
The city moves, in and out through buildings, up and down monolithic elevators, through the intertwining subways.
Oddly enough you always see the same person twice, over heads on the 15 foot wide sidewalks or across the road, carrying their precious individuality in their bicycles wicker basket.
It is impossible to fathom people living here, houses or apartments just don’t seem to fit, you see no mail boxes or window sill flower boxes, just people walking the streets as if the streets are their own.
You look above you and it’s hard to tell if the buildings reach higher then the clouds of if you’re just in a completely adverse place on earth, suspended beyond average day to day humanity.
In the rare still of early, early morning or of the moments you acquire sitting on the subway, a park bench, a bus stop, when the only thing you can hear is everyone and you know they cant hear you,
Feel it in the stone and slate, the wood, the creaking trees, six million New York city hearts never wanting you to leave.
This is the New York of stagnant yesterday’s rain puddles on eighth avenue dampening business men’s souls,
The New York of street vendors, migrating from Central Park to the Met just before the 8.43 closing time.
This is the New York of Bloomfield, Trump and Welles,
The New York of a man who came from New Jersey in the morning, trying to make it big, and returned home in the afternoon.
It is the Brooklyn Promenade at an anticipated day break and Fifth Avenue in a streetlight lit midnight.
It is just as much your New York in 5 minutes as it is to anyone in 5 years.
Those six million hearts, once you’ve heard them, once you’ve been near to them,
Calling you back.
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