I used to write these little musings in intervals, and they always spilled out of my fingertips at the same time of night at the same temperature and same humidity.
Tonight is one of those nights.
The night is still beachy, one of those east coast nights where you don’t know whether to wear a coat or let your hair down. I had just spent twelve hours with my family at the shore, taking photographs of my sister and kissing my little brother and new dog. A three hour bus back to the city and the aura of it all had not disappeared.
On the bus mid-nap I read a post from a dear friend of whom I am very fond, who is a writer that just returned from Europe. He talked of leaving bits and traces of himself in different parts of the world. For he himself may not make an impact, but the imprint of a shoe or a fingernail may. The butterfly effect. It was a phenomenon that I thought of often and shared with no one.
And the traces of that thought and the comfort of someone else sharing it is what brought me up to Times Square. I slid through the crowds of people, their minds clueless as to what came before their time, thinking of nothing and of everything and memorizing the faces of those who would look great in photographs.
And now I am in a high building, on the ninth floor, looking at the gaudy lights and the comforting crowds and listening to Burning Desire. Chai tea warms my hands and everything seems right.