TriBeCa

Go for a walk. Clear your head. Except the air is too heavy with tropical moisture, no clarity is to be found. Why did I choose TriBeCa? All quaint cobblestone streets, clean children with tired nannies, successful suits and fancy storefronts. It's like a movie set for Having Made It, and nothing makes me feel more like I Haven't.

I walk into Whole Foods, this mecca of delicacies and conscious consuming; the professionals duck and weave, as they pick up italian olives, organic cheeses, local micro-brews. I walk slowly, fill my basket carefully. After a while I start backtracking in the store, picking out item after item from the basket and returning them to their shelves. I didn't really need that one anyway. Poverty makes my stomach hurt, and I end up at the register with milk and tomatoes. By the time I leave, the rain has picked up. I walk along West Street without so much as a breeze from the river. It is sweltering. My hair curls itself upwards, climbing like a vine along my faltering umbrella. I am soaked before I even reach Canal.

I don't have the answer. I really don't. Living day by day means time may run out at any curve in the road. I go to sleep in my own bed tonight, but there are no promises of where I'll awake tomorrow. Hell. I don't even know the question.