Faces, No Names

There's something about New York that I'm missing terribly lately. 

It's not the public masturbators or the non-consensual sexual encounters that happened almost more frequently than any other kind...

It's not the charming basement bedrooms with perpetually damp tile flooring. 

Something about the people....the constant hunger. Somehow, I'm not surrounded by people who are creatively hungry anymore. 

I think back on the faces of my New York existence and I can't say any of the people I knew cared about me as much as my people here, but there was a dazzling potential about those undeveloped friendships. Endless creative opportunities. At the end of every wasted day, there was a mutual understanding of why we had no time to make friends, only cash. Something about knowing there's no guarantee of tomorrow with every single person you encounter juices so much authenticity and vulnerability out of every interaction. 

It's no wonder I crashed out after only a year. All those interactions were more honest & draining than a whole week worth of interactions in an easier town. I had an overdose of truth. Realities, ugly realities held up for self-inspection like an age-stained mirror. New York didn't make me a good person, but it had its value in my life. 

New York will always be a certain kind of home to me.