New York City isn’t a melting pot.
It’s a boiling pot. It’s a pressure cooker for people’s dreams.
Living in the city forces you to be who you are. And if you don’t know who you are, it will force you to become even more of that, multiplying your question mark until you’re a thousand question marks bobbing around in a giant, question-mark-shaped pool.
Everything about New York City is physical. It’s an assault on the senses. The smells, the sounds, the noise, the cold-blasts-of-air whipping through the streets and reminding pedestrians that they are not in control, despite their credit scores.
Everyone walks around either staring-at-their-phones or “ghosting” (looking straight ahead and only straight ahead and not looking anywhere else) because, in New York City, attention is a precious commodity. If those greedy stockbrokers had a way to bottle it and sell it as a stock, they would.
Living in NYC is akin to being a relationship that’s sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always interesting. You never know what’s going to happen next and, living here, I find myself surprised by the incidents and accidents that I witness. It’s a city that’s both beautiful and tragic and that’s why it is so addictive.
Like a giant magnet in the sky that can only attract what it doesn’t destroy, New York City draws you in, teasing you to step further into the dark cave, until you discover you’ve stepped into the mouth of the beast and it’s too late for you to escape. Visit the monster, but don’t become it’s food.
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