Image source: Self

From my up coming book.

New York, the fucking city was made for the fall. I see the bright colors as the plane lands. An earthquake like feeling had woken me up. I wasn’t sure if I was excited to see my horrible death coming or actually afraid. In any case it was a cloud we hit as we were landing. Sleep. The concept makes no sense to me, we work like mechanical beings day in and out only for the need of sleep to slow the productivity process. I suppose if God had to rest on the seventh day who are we to compete? Anyway I woke up yesterday and found plane tickets to New York., must of been a job because I found paperwork of pictures I needed to take. Now I’m here and the wind slaps me across the face as if I wasn’t suppose to be there. I wonder if there is any aspect of the weather I hate more than the wind. None-the-less I keep moving aimlessly trying to complete my job so I can go back home and sleep for another week or however many days. It’s funny how New Yorkers look like New Yorkers, like their own breed of animal. You can tell by their look that they’re born and raised here. You can spot the outsiders like myself like soar green thumbs. They say it’s difficult to make it out here, I wonder if they could make it anywhere else.

It’s night time and Broadway is brighter than the day itself. The lights blind you with commercials infesting your mind with the cancer of the corporate world. Life has become a dream of lights of hopeless fairy tales interrupted every ten minutes by a word from their sponsors.

Central Park Beauty is thy name. The wind has finally calmed as I walk through the paved walkways as my soul stills. The bikers, dog walkers, and pedestrians seem to share my mood, curious and living. The trees stand frozen in dance. If you pay attention you can see the trees and the rocks carry their own character. They tell us their age as we humbly pass them by. The stone bridges stand there with conviction knowing we will come to them, through them, and above them. In car ridden city where smoke must fill your lungs ten fold of any other city in the world the air is finally clean, but as I look around and think as if all the pollution from all the vehicles weren’t enough or distant enough, everyone here smokes. I keep walking all I see is trees, trees, and more trees; twenty six thousand of them. As I walk past between two fenced gardens I am halted. As the American elm trees line up together forming the most inviting isle.

New York is so cocky that even the trees show you their roots as they come up out of the ground. Continuing to walk I take a random detour in the park, but it was still a made path. As the park begins to become within itself, and I begin to realize I am seeing the same thing over and over again just in a different area I am halted only to find myself halted to a view of the most beautiful body of water. As the colors of the trees are accented by the clean lake. It’s not like Chicago where the water stays green year round. Central Park, to me, has become the only hope of sanity in this city.

While strolling along with my camera I finally saw what I came looking for. Her name was Michigan. Her dress blended in with the colors of the leaves and trees. Her shoes and feet were as if one with the grass. And her smile…her smile amplified the rays of the sun.