As a non-native but absolutely set-in-stone New Yorker, I am just one man among millions of others just like me, all trying to compete for the dwindling amount of wealth, status and treasures left in this aging city.
I pretend not to bat my lashes at this passing fad of sudden poverty that I find myself submerged up to my eyebrows in, yet as I stand here, cold and drowning between temporary assignments and freelance projects I am supposed to somehow find the time to work on my own personal “life objectives”…hmm alright.
That is after all why we’re young in the first place, is it not? How on earth would we handle this amount of immense pressure with feeble bones and waning memories? Between the new music releases, socialite gossip, upcoming fashion trends, pretending to be a non-conformist to blend into the hipster scene and of course somehow paying my deceivingly outrageous bills I am somehow still sure I can finish my novel of an as of yet undetermined amount of pages, illustrate for Simon and Schuster, amass a collection of gallery-worthy paintings, start a blog-eventually upgrade to a full blown website and the finale: start an online graphic journal…
As you can see, my ten year plan has started a bit off target, considering that I am in my 8th year of living in New York City and my net worth is the smallest fraction possible of what I had hoped to have accomplished by now but, that is after all why we’re young, is it not?
And love: you who I hold so dearly, you who I fear with all the blood in my body, you who I would press my lips to every eve before the softest slumber and smell your hair as I dream…you elude me. But who has time for love?