In:Sight

Spring arrives, each day milder and lighter than the preceding. People appear out of the cracks in the pavement, milling around outdoor cafés and along the river promenade. They smile and walk lightly on the sidewalks, making spontaneous plans because it's too nice not to. In a cramped room on Morton Street, the last vestiges of a person wither to dust and get buried in the dark corners that remain. Every morning, I think the nightmares will be over, but each day seems worse than the last. I fear that this winter has been more cruel than any before, but looking over words from years past reveal that every winter burns me to the ground and rips the flesh from my bones. It is comforting.

I got too drunk last night, I get too drunk and say stupid things so often but just a moment with air in my lungs was too tempting, and I took every breath I could get. I walked him to the subway later, I don't know why, and as I walked back down Hudson the skies opened. Rain turned the West Village into a sea of scrambling pub crawlers in too little clothing, of yellow cabs with their lights off, but all I did was kick my soaked boots in it and smile.

Because the thing was, among those papers, rambling about impossible darkness and senseless despair as they did, a slight beacon kept reappearing, nudging at my sides until finally I heard what it said. That in every struggle, in all these years, the Promise of New York has kept my head over water every time. That the magic of belonging to these streets has made me kick, and claw, and fight through every apathetic grief I've fallen into. That in the end, I don't need sunshine, or perfection, or you, now, because I am here.

The corners didn't seem so dark then, the hangover not so encroaching. And whatever happens in nightmares can't touch you when you wake up.