New York Rain
The New York rain kissed her face.
A soft mist, like the embrace of a lost relationship. Another wistful moment in a monotonous day populated with nothing but a sheer need for little things like this. It was winter, the time of dying love and late night Netflix binges. All cuddled up inside a nice blanket, alone yet together with just a WiFi connection and a pair of screens.
It wasn’t a particularly chilly day, yet the coldness of the air rang through her ears, piercing her head and her feelings, both in one shot. The sound of a nearby string quartet, slowly getting out of tune with every wind chill. The blaring of nearby car horns, an indicator of the thoughts of the drivers, frantic, angry, and still friendly.
Her figure passed through the street’s crowds, carefully observing every face she saw, looking for some sort of connection. A reason to start a conversation. But every character she glimpsed was foreign, distant. As she passed by 52nd street, she took a moment to look away from the stray dogs and cats which danced at her feet, and gaze into the atmosphere and clouds from where this sentimental mist came from.
And then she realized that the New York rain kissed everybody’s face.
Towering buildings shadowed over the steel canyon, creating a safe haven but also a need to escape. And somewhere, in this monument of metal, there was a small 1-room apartment with an acoustic guitar in it. An acoustic guitar held by a man with a 5-o’clock shadow and calloused fingers, strumming while aimlessly flinging his hand around the fretboard, looking for the words to a song that doesn’t exist yet.
He lacked talent, but not musical talent. And because of this his tunes would be locked inside the 1-room apartment for an eternity, begging for the ears of an audience, the glare of stage lights, the flashing cameras of the press. Yet even 4 years and a degree from music school would do them no justice.
There was no aesthetic, dream nor flame. But there was a spark. A spark ignited at 10 in an old art classroom with an out of tune piano, crafted and molded at 16 at group lessons taught by a ‘friend of a grammy winner’, dimmed at 20 in an old bar with no customers, then rejuvenated at 23 with a phone call. And along the way came gigs, friends, fights, depression, the temptation to quit, and a lack of recognition. The talent had moved on. But he hadn’t.
Hey, maybe he could write a song about that.
180 feet underground, he lay on a subway seat, slowly losing consciousness to the gentle thuds and creaks of the empty carriage. Frayed Apple headphones in, blaring the new acoustic single “Goodbye Berklee” by some up and coming Manhattan-based self-produced indie artist that popped up on his Spotify shuffle. A particularly loud thump awakened him, and he checked his phone. Quickly browsing through the latest Japanese streetwear deals, he glanced at a picture of a limited edition mecha robot figure, resisting an ever-growing urge to buy it.
The day had been filled with his sitting in front of a 144Hz monitor deep inside a company closet that had a portal to the world of World of Warcraft. His fingers dove across the keyboard, pushing random keys, hoping for the best and also for his boss to not find him. And as he came to realization that he had spreadsheets to fill, he fell into another hunch, asleep once again.
3 stops and one missed train later, he was standing outside a small house in the suburbs of the city. He found himself speeding straight to his room, ignoring the voices on the radio and the smell of something burning in the kitchen. Only to stare at another glowing screen for the next 8 hours. 10 hours later, with 2 hours lost to Tumblr, he noticed the time. It was too late for sleep, but it was too early for work. And so he lay down on his barren floor, took off his glasses, and began to cry softly.
‘There was always tomorrow,’ he thought.
