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New York, New York

October 25, 2010

One thing I love about this city is the simple fact that here one can be lonely among people.

Solitude, or the simple fact of physical isolation ,  is too ambivalent. Are you really lonely or are you just alone? This city makes it clear.

Interestingly enough, after a year in New York, I’m becoming somewhat  immune to it. It’s like a second skin- present but forgotten. Walking up a subway stair I used to notice  and  virtually  taste every texture, every sound and smell, every face and body careening  my way . Now all these are mere obstructions to be deftly maneuvered around. Either the city has become ghost-like, or I have.
So many people. You would think it would be easier to find soul friends. Let alone a soul mate.

Also, it is becoming clearer to me that  if one is to live  happily, or at least contentedly, one has to stop living apologetically. I’m getting too old to mince words. I’ve already spent years watching what I say and how I say it, wanting to blend in or not wanting to make the other person feel clueless, or fearing misunderstanding. Or plain civility. I have to stop not being myself,  for fear of offending. I’m a ghost, they’re ghosts- we are all in a time capsule, already sealed and buried. Who is worth appeasing?
And then 20 years? 30? 40? Maybe 50 if I’m lucky?
Time is flying- the rest of my life is merely preparation for the exit and  I’ve already chosen how.
I know my weaknesses, I know what I’m running from. I know what I’ve buried. I know what I want to die for.
And then:  a life of appeasement?  The grin of the ape, soliciting affection or camaraderie.
To be friends with buffoons, for the feel of skin, kind words? So as not to be alone. At what price?
Kill the wanting. Or want something else.
Friendships can’t be forced. Either they are or they’re not. If they don’t blossom the soil was infertile in the first place. There are much better things to plant and grow.

Sometimes a lie is the best way of telling the truth.  Artistically and otherwise. The bald truth is always open to various interpretations. A lie, on the other hand, is unequivocal.

Then out of the blue , this city surprised me yet again.  I met  another stellar  soul ( I’m amazed that just as I’m  about to lose hope , I find them or they find me ).

This is her. Unorthodox,  and surprisingly sharp.

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