Past tense.
I see things every day that are worthy of a smile, an extra thought, a pen and paper. I see famous buildings, famous bridges, famous people. I see store fronts with things I'll never afford and breathtaking apartments and gum on the sidewalk; I ignore subway performers and solicitors and people who bump my shoulder. I always make sure to sit where I can take in the view as I ride the Q train over the Manhattan Bridge. I see the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Freedom Tower, the skyline. I think how lucky I am. I think I should write about this - but it's been done before. It's been done better.
The words weave their way through my head. I see them sprawled out before me. They seem prolific and meaningful or funny and whimsical - either way worthy of a read. I stop to consider how they'll seem to the few who may actually read them. The words distort and diminish, become frivolous and stupid. Writer's block. Self doubt. And shame. Have my words always seemed like this? Did I lean too hard on the quality of my characters? They wrote for me. They made me better. Or was it that place? A community so devoid of excitement that the people themselves are what you notice.
This city full of writers and artists and individuals. That place full of history, hardship, risk and reward. The risk here has already been taken. I jumped. I left. I rejoiced and regretted. Now I just wonder - my words having fallen into the chasm between Mississippi and New York, between my kids and these kids, between who I was then, who I am now, and who I thought I'd be by now.
I see things every day that are worthy of a smile, an extra thought, a pen and paper. I see famous buildings, famous bridges, famous people. I see store fronts with things I'll never afford and breathtaking apartments and gum on the sidewalk; I ignore subway performers and solicitors and people who bump my shoulder. I always make sure to sit where I can take in the view as I ride the Q train over the Manhattan Bridge. I see the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Freedom Tower, the skyline. I think how lucky I am. I think I should write about this - but it's been done before. It's been done better.
The words weave their way through my head. I see them sprawled out before me. They seem prolific and meaningful or funny and whimsical - either way worthy of a read. I stop to consider how they'll seem to the few who may actually read them. The words distort and diminish, become frivolous and stupid. Writer's block. Self doubt. And shame. Have my words always seemed like this? Did I lean too hard on the quality of my characters? They wrote for me. They made me better. Or was it that place? A community so devoid of excitement that the people themselves are what you notice.
This city full of writers and artists and individuals. That place full of history, hardship, risk and reward. The risk here has already been taken. I jumped. I left. I rejoiced and regretted. Now I just wonder - my words having fallen into the chasm between Mississippi and New York, between my kids and these kids, between who I was then, who I am now, and who I thought I'd be by now.
