Tired eyes and midnight skies

New York doesn’t just happen.

Some would say that it plays out along the years; suffering from low blows and high highs and other things that make one sound smart; sophisticated even.

I don’t agree.

It seemed to me that the very thought of a place like this was spiraled out of the mind of a crazy, wreck less person.

Because the energy seemed to flow from my veins and thread itself in my blood, it painted itself in the color of my eyes, in the syllables of my words.

The lights shone with fierce determination to blind me. And I sore I was blind, deprived of my senses because the city was a whirl wind to me.

I liked that New York didn’t seem to judge. That the people didn’t care who you were or what you wore or the way you walked.

It was nice to live without an identity.

But most of all I liked walking till four in the morning and eating pizza with pasta on it. I liked that Time Square didn’t close after midnight and I liked going places just because I could.

At home we gaze upon the stars because we believe that they are the only things alive but in New York the constellations seem to gaze upon us.

New York the city filled with misfits and drop-outs, tired eyes and midnight skies, the loved and the love-less.

I was there last week.

I wish I still was.

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