Yes, I said it.
I kind of love you, New York. Even though I know it’s likely unrequited.
But sometimes, Fuck You.
Screw this city that grabs you by the hair and makes you stare at how alluring It’s streets can be. How there seems to be a shimmer that jumps from glass window to pee on the ground.
It makes you breathe in the cigarette stink and gas putters and dripping air conditioner water and shit on the sidewalk — and then, tells you: Love me.
You see It’s colors swirl around like a 3am drunk walk home, and somehow, they look beautiful — even though you know that’s more than likely not true. You know that you’ll wake up in the morning with gum on your shoe and keys on the floor and a craving for a cheese bagel.
And, somehow It will make you crawl out of bed in search for Salvation. But instead, you find Mystery. And Excitement. And, magical street fairs with the exact cheese bagel you were craving plus sparkling lemonade and a live band.
It makes you find more than Salvation.
It hands you Redemption on a silver platter.
It hands you Redemption after you get flicked off by some Biker-jerk, but then spot Free Hugs across the street. After you nearly pass out from breathing in the subway stench, but emerge from the underground to a Manhattanedge Sunset.
Most importantly though — It gives you Hope.
Because Hope is sprinkled the air, making the pollution a bit more breathable. Hope is why the City is constantly renewing Itself: It’s people and places and landmarks are in a constant state of betterment.
You could walk down a block one day, and suddenly, your favorite coffee shop has vanished. But, something else is magically in it’s place. Something (possibly?) better.
That Hope for the Next Best Thing is always lurking. Even on the darkest of days.
And well, sometimes that Hope is desperate — like when you just know you will (must) find an apartment with only 2 days left. But sometimes, that Hope is refreshing — like when a stranger stops to give you directions…going the right way.
That Hope, That Energy becomes yours. It may seem fake. It may feel replaceable. But, It’s a feeling that No Other City can replicate.
Even on New York’s worst days, only You can hate it — no one else. Your ego and shins and wallet are bruised, but you keep coming back for more.
While for some of Us, It never becomes a Home: How-ston is always pronouced Hou-ston. The grass in Central Park always has a murky tint of brown.
But, for the rest — well, We’ve become addicted. We’ve fallen in love. We try to escape, but then we remember: Only in New York…