Seeing Spots

Lack of sleep and sustenance lead me to a colloquial state, where billboards and restaurants seem to dictate my life and spell out prophecies. The city mews, south park ends, George Washington lives under a bridge. My mind starts to use “parking meters as walking sticks”, as I squint through heavy eyelids at fire hydrants, GAP ads, and glass windows showcasing expensive couture, juxtaposed next to a homeless man using paper bags as shoes. 25 years and still thinking about the present? No, 19 years and still thinking about the past. Still lighter and fluffier than buses and taxis at all times. “That makes me happy,” he says, as I share my one conclusion, resolution, illusion, confusion. My loved ones grin from ear to ear as I admit defeat, take 4 steps backward, and allow my heart to sink again and again. Opportunity is here. This is the city—filled with chaos and creation, destruction and construction, and I find that all my heart cries out for is sleep.