Posted In Stories

The Streets of New York

The hustle and bustle of movement. The soft click-click-click of a pair of high heels. The loud and brash. The quiet and self-absorbed. The babies in their strollers. The innumerable dogs running around excitedly.

The couples walking together. In bliss together, loathing each other, or just quietly moving along. The businessmen and their business casual or business formal. The tourists with cameras and inevitably bright running shoes.

The hip and urban. The country and comically out of place. The tight cropped hair of a stylish man. The loose and frazzled beard of the homeless man by him. The many-hued lipsticks. Bright red, light pink, black, and purple. The excitement of kids going to and from school, or on their next adventure though a landscape of concrete, steel, glass, and human flesh.

The always rising pitch of police sirens telling people to get out of the way. The telling of motherfuckers to fuck off. The cat-calling of assholes with nothing better to do. The honking of drivers, both justified and unjustified in their impatience. The endless sound of footsteps, echoing like the the sounds of a stream, following each story, each river of life.

The smell of trash, never far away. The unmistakable scent of meat being grilled. Kebabs, steaks, and burgers. The whiff that you get of the curry down the street, and the stew being made at the Chinese restaurant. The tinge of alcohol in the air as you pass a bar, whose quality you can tell by how much piss is mixed in. All mixed together with the cigs, e-cigs, and the occasional spliff.

The smiles. The frowns. The furrowed brows. The attempts to try to appear you don't care. The quick looks at other wondering if they'll look back. The clam and steady countenance. The angry stare. The afterglow left from a laugh. The serious look of a person ready to get to work. The ready stance of those that are clearly in their element. The confused looks of those that are clearly lost.

The English. The Spanish. The Brooklyn. The Mandarin. The Russian. The Greek. The Arabic. The Midwestern. The Korean. The Italian. The Japanese. The Yiddish. THe Hindi. The cacophony of tongues somehow speaking separately in unison.

The shoes. The hip Converse or Nike sneakers. The bespoke or unrecognizable brands of and endless variety of extremely similar business shoes. The boots of every shade, shape, and style imaginable. The stylish socks or notable lack thereof.

The determination to get through the day. The hate of an enemy sitting somewhere nearby. The happiness of a new job or a closed deal. The joy of new love blossoming. The relaxation of a bench in the park. The solace and escape provided by a pair of earphones and a computer in your pocket. The frustration of dreams not yet attained. The elation of imagination becoming a part of reality. The heartbreak of hopes dashed away in a moment. The endless shattering of preconception.

The pools of calm in the stream of people. The predictable pace of the current. The quick and sudden movement of the rapids.

The calm in the chaos. The eye of the storm. The endless bliss of eternal stillness.

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