Concrete Jungle where Dreams are Made Of.

I want to go to New York. It's where I'd rather be. Just being there, doing absolutely nothing, and walking to nowhere in particular would put the goofiest smile on my face. The people, the skyscrapers, the hot dog vendors, and the ticket sellers. The scent of the sewers and the car smoke permeating the air, broken only by fleeting smells of salted pretzels, coffee, and sometimes even Chinese food. And in the wee hours of the morning when I can't sleep, I'll go up to our roof and listen to the sounds of the city. What was so poetic in my dreaming head will give life to nothing more than garrish sirens and aggressive car honks. And the stars I imagined to be canopied above me will dim in the wake of the city lights leaving nothing but the moon. Much like the myth of the city, only one will really shine. But the wind will carry the sounds back and forth and the night will blanket me in understanding. And though it'll amount to nothing I thought it would, it'll be the fabled Big Apple, the Grecian mecca of its time, a city with skyscrapers towering to remind us of our true size and alive enough to show us that it doesn't really matter.

Who.. Are You?

I used to do this thing when I was a kid, where I would just lie in bed, lift my hand up high and just stare at it for hours and hours. Partly because I had nothing better to do, but mostly just so I can think about it; how am I here, or if any of this was real. I'd focus really hard hard and wonder how on earth I was breathing, and where I am and I'd imagine myself watching me from space, the black nothingness and stars so bright, and say, hey, look at that, it's me: the speck. Is this a dream, and if so, whose is it? And if it isn't, then how is this happening? I would see all of this in my hand, for hours and hours, lost in thought, only a hand, I told myself- but what is a hand, really? And then I'd start repeating the word over and over again till it lost all meaning, and only after I broke that barrier that was my current understanding was I free to ponder, with no belief holding me back, what everything the world taught me was really me.

Someone made this, I repeated over and over, in my head, and out loud, it explained everything. And as a kid, I was told as much, but I was also told never to question it. God, that is. So I left it alone, but everything else was fair game, and the game always lead me to the same conclusion, which was god. And then I found myself questioning my inability to question god. I mean, if I believed in him wholeheartedly, why wasn't I allowed to just delve into that part of me that yearns to know, because it wasn't just curiosity, it was almost paralyzing, it was the reason I stared at my hand all day, and it's why I could do just that for so long, because I was told not to cross the line that was questioning god's existence, and so I stayed in mind limbo. Neither thinking or not thinking about, just lying on my bed, all day, and staring.

for a moment,

i was released from this corporeal vessel, and i was watching myself from afar. for but a moment, i questioned my reality, i questioned my existence. too fleeting for my mind to have processed it. i saw my hands and my screen, and i saw the letters on the keyboard, i saw white and orange and yellow, but none of it made sense to me. then i was back to reality, back inside my body, and that out of body experience -as we call it- was over. its remnants are still hanging over the clouds of my mind. like those foreign thoughts have evaporated and are now suspended in a mist at the roof of my cranium, waiting for a crack, so they can seep in again and carry me away with them. To you. If only you knew..
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