It's Up To You

I want to wake up in a city that doesn't sleep reverberates around the narrow brick alleys of the West Villages. Neighbors who maybe never knew each other trickle out onto stoops and sidewalks to clap and beat on their pots, to remind themselves that this is the only place they ever wanted to call home and as long as we are still here, we still can. We spend the afternoon in a 19th century townhouse, quickly wisping past old wallpaper and narrow creaking staircases to the little garden the back, old fir trees stretching into the blue sky and ivy wrapping itself around the neighborhood. Do you know someone built this house once, and everything was different then. What this brick has not survived, this fir tree, this oasis. We are but specks in our own Universe, oblivious to the enormous miracle that carries on outside of us.

At dusk, I walked home through Washington Square Park, and the Empire State Building pulsed in red and I thought, this beating heart is the only thing that ever mattered. As long as it beats in me, and I in it in return, we're ok.

I'll make a brand new start of it  
if I can make it there

 The miracle continues, whether we dare to believe it
or not.