Life has a peculiar way materializing in front of you.
Then sometimes, it taps you on your right shoulder with it's left hand, and sniggers as you turn your head to find nothing there.
New York, despite it's multitude of private locations, still belongs to many millions of people. How can I look back after six years and think---"That spot is mine."?
Tonight I walked down Fifth Avenue somewhere south of Flatiron. It's already dark early because it's mid-October. Without sunglasses I am forced to stare at people I pass without the protection of ambiguity. I lock eyes with a hurried girl who has a half-masticated deli sandwich hanging from her mouth. I know her from home. I had a crush on her.
We stop, and force the small talk from somewhere inside. As I'm about to tell her I'm leaving for Los Angeles in a week, a handsome guy in a black leather jacket catches my eye from over her shoulder. I know him from college. We dated.
He kisses me on the cheek. A botched introduction follows. The girl awkwardly holds her limp sandwich. A sidewalk threesome.
There I have it; in 5 square feet of concrete I have everything. A previous life stands to my left and a part of the present life I lead stands to my right. I'm frozen in the middle.
I notice as I walk home all these intersections of memory.
There's the corner where I slipped and fell into that massively deep puddle. Over there is that diner where we stopped to use the restroom. In front of this hideous building you kissed me goodnight. There's the window of your old apartment (who occupies it now?) Theres the stretch of sidewalk we waited on to get into that club. There's the window of my favorite restaurant(it's gone now) There is the lamppost I chained my bike to everyday. That is the stoop you waited for me on.
Each block I walk I am witness to these apparitions.
I fear with time they will escape limbo and pass on to their next lives, more than likely if I am not living here anymore. Then they will exist in my faulty memory. Repetition proves accuracy. If I'm not reminded, it will dissolve. Soon pinpoint locations will become approximate. Then uncertain. Then probable. Then unconscious.
Somewhere there exist moments I have yet to create. The kind I can't plan.
After I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I snapped this photo. For the record, this was how my front door looked on October 20th, 2011. I'll pat myself on the back for my attempt at preservation.
And when I leave later tonight, I will remember to lock the door behind me.
