To Another Plane

Sometimes I get the feeling that life is going to be nothing but a disappointment. I feel like my future’s already set, and I’m not going to end up getting what I want. My art teacher always tells us that we already have mortgages – we already know exactly what will happen within the next ten years. As much as the future freaks me out, this thought scares me too. I don’t want to have to follow a certain path. I don’t want to just go to school for four years and then call it quits on life and learning. I want to read and study and learn things that high school didn’t allow me to learn, like just how many stars there are in a desert sky, or how to paint a house, or how to take care of sheep. I want to study art and books and religion and then write about them once I’ve formed my opinions, or once I’ve learned something. I want to critique while secretly getting to indulge in what I love to do – observe. See things, read things, watch things, hear things. The only thing that I know I want for sure, and which I will go out of my way to accomplish, is to end up in this city. I want a flat in the East Village – but I’m not picky about placement, really. I want to be able to walk to work every single day. I want to be able to hop on the train and be back home for dinner in Jersey whenever I feel like it. I want my night skies to be lit up by artificial lights and fluorescent bulbs instead of the stars. Every night I pray to be transported here, some way or another. New York City is the center of the world and I’ll be damned if I can’t be a part of that. The numbers and the crowds and the streets lined with people and stuffed with cars, that’s not overwhelming. It’s comforting.


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