Leap Year

She says to take deep breaths, she says to let your mind drift away and be empty, she says to relax. Her soft, swaying voice follows such a light ripple in the waters; how you are supposed to float on the lightness of Nothingness and resurface brand new. She doesn't know that when the waters are still, the monsters below have free rein, that you must rage the current on your own to keep them at bay. I fail miserably with all she asks of me, and I arise from the waves out of breath and entirely abused.

What point is there in these possessions, this stability? What point is there in regular paychecks and recurring tv shows, in sleeping well at night? Sometimes I think I chase them only because someone said so. Most days I fear I accept them because I believe it's all I'm good for.

It's no coincidence my greatest fear is drowning,
while my greatest joy is barreling through the surf.

Plains

(It happens, quietly. From the corner of your eye you can see your life spiraling out of control, helplessly barreling head first into a dark vacuum far below your feet, but you are too far removed from your own self to grasp what it means. You don't feel a thing.

That doesn't mean it's not happening.)

Bulletproof

I quit my job, he says. It was taking up too much time, and when I look back at any job I've had, I realize that none of them mattered. He crafts his  day in artistic fervor, writes and rewrites with lunatic dedication, while I while away the days over frivolous rhyme. His excitement ignites mine as well -- it always did. We were young, once, we were 18 and the world lay at our feet and when he told me to run into it, I did. I have forgotten so much.

He seems to be dancing still.

The call ended, the houselights came back on. I see how you walk down that wide, paved road of common expectations, make your way down the checklist without fail. But what if he is right, and we are wrong? What if life is better lived in madness? The apartment you own, the money that you've saved, the job that is appropriate and a clever next step, one day you will look back at them.

Will you think they mattered?

Off

There was a time
when this city meant more
than just the drudgeries
of a life that could be lived anywhere.

I saw his face on the screen today. I have forgotten to look for it. It's been so many years since that summer on the roof -- we took a cab one hundred miles to Brooklyn and brought beer without an opener and couldn't wait till we arrived. The party was sweaty and loud and full of promise. Anyway, it's forever ago, I barely recognize your face, would I even know your eyes if I saw them in the street? For one full week I was star struck but whatever. You played the guitar in a band and had a fixie, such a cliche.

I could really use a drink.

Scape

My teeth hurt again. I begin to imagine that the gods are trying to speak to me through my ailing body, but what would they say that I have not already shouted from the roof tops. The city is plunged into a polar vortex of unimaginable proportions; every step is a brutal reminder of its power. I take long baths, refill with only hot water and resurface dizzy. Another hospital is bombed in Syria. Religious terrorists hijack supposedly democratic elections and the land of the free is unrecognizable sometimes in daylight. My sister comes to town and it's the last time she'll sleep, alone, in my home. Next time everything is different.

The world falls apart around me and I don't know if it is enough to count down days until spring. The sets are all so perfectly manicured but none of it is real when you run your finger nails across the surface. David Bowie continues to create magic after he is dead.

You only create layers of dust. You're barely alive, as is.

Shine

There was a moment, last night, I walked east from Hell's Kitchen to catch the F train and I looked south to see Times Square glitter and yell down Broadway, and though normally it would seem a gaudy display of poor taste, for a second I reveled in it. This strange town. 

I took the train to Queens tonight to see the baby, and she was all the things newborn babies are while they do not fathom their power. On my way home, the train running local, I saw every type of person, and it wrapped me in such a comforting blanket. My roommate was still up -- the light shone from the living room when I looked up three floors from the corner at Second avenue; I smiled. 

Everything is moving so fast. You decide to throw your cares to the wind. Run like a madman where the streets will lead. 

Lilly Jayne

The week passes in a struggle of the seasons. Cold rain gives way to spring-like mornings and birdsong, only to fall prey to heavy, thick snow, and all the Instagrammers stop in their tracks at Union Square to photograph the trees. The snow disappears by mid-day. She sits on the couch grimacing in regular intervals. They're getting worse. He looks anxiously at his watch, counting seconds, referring back to printed instructions. I leave them in the early evening. Say Try to get some sleep if you can. You have a lot of work ahead of you.

The baby arrives late the next day. She sends pictures of a beaming father and a sleeping bundle in hospital blankets. Second avenue screams its Friday night fervor as per usual, but for two people in Queens, New York, everything has changed. I tossed for a long time in my bed, trying to make sense of the world.

Perhaps there isn't any to make. Just roll with the punches. Figure it out as you go.