This city’s energy beats with the restlessness of my blood. In the hours when most across the country are snuggled in their blankets, drooling on stale pillows, together we pulse, refusing to slow down, knowing not how to close our eyes or calm our souls.
I touch down in La Guardia, and despite sleep deprivation, exasperating infinite-hours of cancelled flights and lost baggage, I push on.
Quickly, I am transplanted to a setting of my past- a version of me with no career goals and zero passport stamps. Much has changed throughout the years, but within my primal self, I am still hungry, still lusting and wandering.
I walk the streets of Brooklyn at night, jacket hood covering my ears, hands shoved into the depths of my pockets, and breathe in the sharp frost as my boots hit the snow-covered concrete. It’s a familiar, almost meditative, smell of sin that lingers in the air. One that draws ex-Catholics like me in like all bad decisions. Cigarettes and garbage-lined streets and lost, frantic bodies looking for the next chance for debauchery. (Fuck the over-workings of the day-time brain.) I inhale it, savor it, roll it around on my tongue like ecstasy.
If only for a few days, I am back in New York, wild without plans.