Why I Live Here

Last night, I worked late. Leaving the office at 8:30pm means the sun is down, the streets are a little less crowded, and I'm guaranteed a seat on the subway.

This city is all about change. No one can live here, as the saying goes, unless they're willing to be living somewhere different tomorrow. The people, the buildings, the very ground the city is built on, are all growing, shrinking, moving. But if you catch the city in an in-between time, when it's not quite this moment anymore but not quite the next moment either, the city will show you its real splendor. It's as if the city shares a secret with you; to remind you why you're here, or just to remind you that you're here.

Last night was an in-between time. It's not quite summer here, but it's not quite autumn. It was dark at 8:30pm, but not quite night-time. And when I walked out of my office building's lobby onto 45th Street, I felt the change and my breath caught. I suddenly wanted to run around every corner just to see what was on the other side, and to go on to the next corner and the next. I wanted to see every street, climb every building, and find every last crack in the pavement. Yet the euphoria of that anticipation, the knowledge of those endless possibilities, rooted me to the spot just to prolong the enjoyment. You know these moments, these love-at-first-sight moments, when everything seems so clear and you feel somehow more alive than before.

And then the next moment came. The cars honked, the people laughed and chatted down the street, and the city, winking about our shared secret, moved on.


Picture by Joergen Geerds, New York Panorama