My first love was New York City. Growing up in New York is like a movie; it is a city that truly breathes arts and culture. From the vessels of the rat infested MTA system to the heart of Times Square, New York has an endless and indescribable droste effect of the senses. For the average New Yorker you become an adult by the age of thirteen. Transportation is a no brainer and you know someone who could probably get you anything under the sun. Granted, parents have varying degrees of restrictions, but there’s always a way around everything. The late great Bob Dylan once said “New York was a city where you could be frozen to death in the midst of a busy street and nobody would notice.” I agree that this sentiment is an unfortunate reality, but witnessing realities like this allowed native New Yorkers like myself to learn valuable life lessons and perspectives at an earlier age.
During my senior year of high school I took a course titled: “New York City Layers and Webs”, in which we explored the history, culture, and neighborhoods of the city. It was a pivotal moment in my life; I was eighteen, out of high school, and about to move on to college. During this time,I had this brief stint of educational freedom, and indulged in moments of recklessness. I was having dinner at a friend’s house, and as we hovered over our egg drop soups someone said “I have a poem to read and it can only be read outside…on the George Washington Bridge.” Each of us looked at each other and then outside the window, looking past the gunmetal-gray buildings framing the brightly lit bridge.
Of course, like most awkward artistic eighteen year-olds we agreed, gulped down our soups, and headed to the GW bridge. Despite the fact that it was the middle of winter, and that the temperature had dropped to toe freezing levels, I refused to bundle up because it didn’t match my outfit. As we got closer and closer to our destination, I began to get more nervous, thinking about the criminals that could attack at any moment until we stood at the center, equidistant to New York and New Jersey. The wind whirred as we interlocked arms and he began to read:
“Thy soul shall find itself alone ’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone—.”
Cars passed by.
“Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness—for then the spirits of the dead who stood in life before thee are again.”
We began to cry.
“A mystery of mysteries!”
Tears barely made it down our frozen faces, blurring the red lights of the cars passing by. We cried because it was of one of those droste effects of the senses. For the first time in a long time we were okay with life not making sense to us. In a place where so many people take their lives away, we gave to ours in such an ambiguous way. Everything was so befitting for the time both literally and figuratively that it felt like the closest thing to perfection. I realized that with every tear that we shed we came closer to finally knowing who we were. We were not mourning, but celebrating amidst our love of each other, at the cusp of a new chapter in our lives, and at the fear of what was to come. A seemingly perpetual moment within a moment.