79th Street Station

Icy grip on Manhattan. Rain seeps in between my toes; I wore the wrong clothes again. It's at the point where people in the elevator talk about the weather. Misery somehow warming the alienated souls.

On the subway, an older man in a classy gray suit sat down next to me and began eating an Italian deli sandwich. We made a joke about something trivial, and as he looked straight into my eyes, unwavering, I thought, here is a New Yorker of the old school. He doesn't need to shy away from fellow passengers. He doesn't need to make excuses for his existance and silly trippings in the train car. Because he owns this city; he courses through its veins, just as his cells are built from its elements. It cannot be taken from him. So he is not on edge. His gaze is steady; he can afford to look strangers in the eye and mean it. Here is a man who has nothing to prove. I sat next to his gray jacket, staring straight ahead, and I smiled that he existed. A cornerstone of the city, making sure it carries on through the years. It made me feel safe.

And still, I trembled. I am no cornerstone. I could be ripped from this place and New York would not even tremble. (Ripped! Hell, it's enough I turn a corner too sharply and I might tumble off the surface of the City, as poorly rooted as I am.) I have everything left to prove, and in a stare-down I fear I would disintegrate, desperately clinging on to the turnstiles but so easily tumbling over and being deposited outside city limits. I hold on, as best I can. I hold on, for my life.