western landscapes

If New York had a soul it would be as dark and rotten as a root-canal. If New York had a heart, it would be large enough to hold all the oil, piss, and spit that spill into its chest every time it rains. There isn’t enough rain in the northern hemisphere to wash away the grime of New York City. I’ve never felt so contaminated before.

My love for this asphalt and concrete, pimpled with chewing gum, brimming with rats and cockroaches, is real. I love it like I love the certainty of death - a repeated and astounding daily revelation. Sadness and love move closer together, they blur into one another like Siamese twins, and I wonder if they were ever separate in the first place, or if I was simply looking from the wrong angle.

I took him to the water at the edge of Brooklyn. We watched the city as it smeared into itself, a single, jagged silhouette dotted with carnival lights. It whispered to us from across the East River. It breathed heavily in and out through the tunnels, out into the streets, and up – finally.

I can now understand why people cry at the sight of the mythical western landscapes. Our love for it is sadness. It is a complete submission to our failure to grasp its entirety.