Dime

I wake early, again, the to do list splits at the seams and overflows even into my commutes; I sit on the subway, productive, running from one ask to the next. Something at the edge of my vision cautions, whispers warnings against the gratification of the manic, but I am too light, too fast, to hear it. Just let me have this bliss. I know it cannot last. On the Upper West Side, in a drab high rise among many, I turned around to see a small sliver of light between buildings, and there in the space, the Empire State shone and sparkled 30 blocks away. This building which sees me and finds me wherever I go, this lighthouse which reminds me no matter where I am on this island I am home. I stood there, dumbfounded, and stared at it for a minute, wrapped the moment up and carried it with me like a gift.

I guess that's the thing about life. Everything is a gift, if you let it.