I rush up Greenwich, swerve north on 8th Ave, overstuffed bag on my back and only assumptions of time in the mess of my head. Throw the bike at Penn Station and tie a mask back on my face before sinking into the underground. The train is empty, I pick a seat by the river, I'll not miss its quiet peace again.
I spent the morning procrastinating, in that indulgent way writers like to do, futzing about, jotting down illegible notes and pacing, panicking mildly by sorting through busy work that should have been attended months ago and which suddenly seem imperative, until finally sitting down to write and finding it already having written itself in my head while I tried to avoid it. They say there is no magic to writing, you just do it, but I think they don't know what magic is. It's the magic that keeps us coming back for more, the magic that makes us cut through that scar tissue again and let the light in, it's that once you have felt love at your fingertips everything else seems less than and you are no longer content to run it along your skin.
The train pummels down the track at sunset, cracks of pinks and apricots through amassing clouds, a trickling reflection of seaweed greens in the snaking river. Ahead, bands of lighting dance down the mountains. Eventually all goes black. I breathe deep into my mask, feel the sadness run out of me.
There is too much to life yet. My heart swells over in gratitude, and if that isn't magic,
then maybe I don't know what magic is,
either.
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