I intended on putting serious thought into figuring out why I can’t seem to find my favorite sort of happiness anywhere else besides New York City.
Sometimes I think too much, I suppose everyone does to a degree. However, when you’re a Writer, and all you do is constantly consider words and expression… I think your brains can get out of control in their own special way. No more or less than anyone else… it’s just a different sort of cognitive anarchy.
Lovely randoms stopping me every four steps for conversation.
It doesn’t matter where I am, I’m the sort that people always stop to ask directions, or talk about the weather, or simply exchange a smile and wave. It’s been that way since I was a kid. People consistently ask me if we’ve met before or say I look familiar.
What’s beautiful about New York City, is there are humans everywhere. My intake of casual encounters sky rockets. I must’ve stopped to chat with over a dozen pretties during my high-heeled wanders.
Everyone finds their own way to make sense of existence. The way I make sense is tapping into the collective whether it’s through spilling ink or listening to an Ecuadorian man on the corner of Lexington Avenue say, ‘Are you sure you don’t know Andy, because I swear I know you from somewhere…’
Somehow the chats distracted me from having no clue how to settle the unsettlement, and instead of worrying… I wrote… a lot.
… and I’m starting to feel a bit better.