I arrived in the fog and it gave the impression of being a dream. JFK looked glorious with its winged architecture and Central Park- oh Central Park just seemed to emerge in the mist like an oasis in the desert. The trees are ripe green and their color is only intensified by the grey of the concrete surrounding them. I saw a white horse pulling a black carriage and the lights in the Plaza were on low. I am at home. In a dream sort of way.
Nobody really lives here, even I never really lived here. The city gives the feeling that we’re all just passing through. These rooms were occupied before and they most certainly will be occupied again when I’m gone. We’re just passing through.
Of course we all are anyway anywhere but this place reminds me of the fact. We’re all citizens of the same spinning planet just on for the ride as brief as it may be. What we do with the time is of little to no consequence in the bright scheme of things. We came from light and will return to light nonetheless so it’s no wonder I’m caught up in the glitter and color of the world around me. It reminds me of who I am.