In another life I was born a New Yorker. I spouted from the great blue sky and fell into the crevices of the pavement like a drip of springtime rain.
I rose from the ground in an immaculate conception and there I began my life.
I was nothing before as I am nothing now, merely a composite of flesh, fat and hair.
I took a breath and inhaled polluted air of second hand smoke; I choked and tears filled my eyes knowing I didn’t belong.
I walked through the grid of lower Manhattan and found nothing. A skeleton of a city with lifeless beings one by one marching their fates away in assembly line fashion.
It was a crowded place to feel so alone.
On the platform between trains bypassed the then and now. One always moving forward and the other always moving backwards. No matter what time of day, the temperature of season, the amount of bodies waiting; always forward, backward, forward, backward. It was the only consistent object of perception.
In another life I found solace in loneliness and learned nothing and everything about me.
I was whole and empty. Growing and wilting. Loving and hating.
I was born between boroughs and had the best of both worlds.
I was neither here nor there. And that’s how I became alive.