New York is rude. It’s ugly. It’s dirty.
New York is beautiful. It’s relaxing. It’s scenic.
This city no longer resembles how it’s projected to be. It’s not how we remember. There are no more Hollywood fantasies or a plenitude of opportunity. It’s simply not that easy to get a job — anywhere. Much less, your dream job.
There are more than 8 million people in New York. In one way or another, most of us are struggling.
But why do I love it so much? Is it the friends I’ve made? The dashing Empire State Building that makes my heart skip a beat at day’s first sight? Or is it the legacy of New York City that lends every “New York”-titled publication a semblance of legitimacy?
I love New York.
Not because I should love New York, and not because I shouldn’t. I guess it’s just a feeling. A feeling I get as I wade through pools of people as I try to exit the train or walk down the street [anger, frustration]. The feeling I get when I walk through Washington Square Park, fountain straight ahead, jazz band to my left [love, happiness]. And it’s the feeling I get when I speak to someone (friend or stranger) who is working just as hard as I am, if not more, to find stability and success [satisfaction].
When I lay in bed at night in my semi-cozy Brooklyn apartment, as my shifting thoughts reverberate in my head relaying the events of the day, I remember where I am — and I smile.