move to brooklyn

New York is all I think about now, when thoughts of her are kind enough to give me leave of their daunting presence. I dream of the grafitti scrawled, broken down buildings where racist conditions gave birth to a beautiful brown revolution called Hip Hop. I dream of culture clad youth clinging to concrete streets crafted into a home. I dream of changing seasons, bathing in faceless tides of people, fading into the anonimity of the crowd, losing myself to find something greater in the hustle and bustle of each skin prickling moment of actual living. Since I was a preteen with overgrown fantasies of a life as a famous columnist, respected author, and acclaimed poet, I knew that New York was the place for me. Certainly it is the place for people watching, as we writer types tend to do obsessively. Its like we are constantly searching for whatever that thing is that connects us with the rest of humanity. It is a very self involved kind of work, maddening really. But I wanted it desperately, all cliches included. Give me the coffee shops for psuedo intellectuals and self proclaimed life artists! Give me the filthy subways laced with unstable, bouisterous bums! Give me the pizzas, bagels, and hots dogs that could only taste that good because it was sizzled in some glorious brand of New York seasoning that has kept America happily obesed for years! Give me days and nights in the blistering cold sucking down $7/pack cigarettes, vowing under my frozen breath to quit the damn things! Give me the rude strangers, middle eatern taxi cab drivers, poverty, chaos, and all the wretched beautiful splendor the place has to offer! Of course I’ve never been, not even for a brief visit, but a girl could certainly dream. And if there was anything I was good at, it was concocting a good dream.