Incoherence from satisfaction

I haven't been reading on the train. All the books, with all the crisp pages and all those perfect black words mean nothing compared to the faces I see everyday, every color, every texture, every emotion sitting there to be looked upon.

I've had this inkling to reach out and touch an arm, to lay my head on his shoulder, to interlock my fingers with hers.

And I know it's for my own comfort, but could it be for theirs also? What would I say? What would they do?

I've started taking pictures of them instead. It's just one small step before I start making everyone feel really uncomfortable.

They might be zombies and assholes, but most, under that overplayed New York facade is someone with a story. And I want to hear the real story, not this "I'm in the best city in the world. What's not to love?" I guess you have to pretend to be positive in an alienated metal cage.

I need sunshine. I need trees. I need adventure.

I need insomnia because I'm unsatisfied. But I'm not unsatisfied here... Everything is here.

Even the miserable excuse at love I fell into is within my reach in the other room, begging for me to show more love than I've ever asked to receive.

I got caught up... But I want nothing to do with it anymore. I want my old self back.

I want someone to get to know, someone to take inspiration from, someone to make stupid future plans with that I'll end up doing by myself.

Let's buy some land in New Mexico with a couple trailers and rent them out to meth addicts, just until I'm ready to make my way out West and take over the business, carrying a gun inside my right boot, wearing dirty jean shorts and a white T-shirt that reads 'trash' backwards so I can really see what I've become in the mirror. I'll move to New Orleans with you so I can join the gypsy circus, waking up most mornings in a shanty with a witch chanting in the kitchen as she lights pieces of my hair on fire and mixes it with goat blood to mix with coffee grinds to cure the hangover and the bruises.

It could never run through this city like I did my own. And that's that.

I know I won't stay here forever... But when I leave I'll feel like I'm leaving prematurely, without the right control of it's allure. But I won't miss it... not like I do Missouri where everything is so familiar.

That's what you miss, the familiarity of a place, of a people. You can stop thinking and just be there.

New York is not a place to be missed, it's a place to be mourned, for beauty remained uncovered.