Lost in The City of Blinding Lights

New York thrums with energy, day and night. The city transports those who dare to set foot in it to places unknown, where pulsing lights and shadows converge to form a city of illusions. With its looming buildings and concrete streets, New York can be a jungle of dreams or a maze of confusion. The many avenues and turns and shortcuts can leave those accustomed to small-town life gasping for air. Literally.

It is easy to get lost in the Big Apple, and even harder to find our destination. When you no longer can rely on maps and you're starting to break out in a profuse sweat, you need only to fall on your knees and pray for a GPS. (Especially if you don't have reliable WiFi access.)

A few days ago, while in NYC, I spent two hours looking for the subway station. Exhausted, I was about ready to catch the first train out of the city. I was not getting paid enough to do this. As a matter of fact, I was not getting paid at all. I could not bear the heat of the underground station. I could not bear the stench of rotting garbage or the overwhelming sea of people. The fumes of the train made my eyes water, and sweat plastered my hair to the nape of my neck. It hadn't occurred to me that I was deep in the heart of the city.

I don't like to ask for help. I'd much rather wander the streets in hopeless desperation than confess that my sense of direction has once again failed me. I don't know what that says about me. Through the years, I've employed a simple learning technique: Look closely for clues and figure it out. Everything I need to know is around me; it's only a matter of being aware of my surroundings. Too bad this same principle does not apply to New York's subway system. While it is no remarkable feat to familiarize oneself with the underground station (as many a people have done it in the past), I was on a tight schedule. I could not afford to while away the afternoon reading pamphlets and deciphering maps.

Finally, amid swearing and sweating, I found the PATH--the transit system linking New York to New Jersey urban communities. Soon after stumbling into the PATH, I paid the fare, boarded the train, and sighed with relief. This process, unlike what I'd gone through, was both comforting and familiar.

New York is a playground for adventurers. The thrill of trekking through unknown land and discovering hidden passageways attracts tourists all year round. With surprise lurking around every corner, who would want to miss out on the opportunity to explore the big city? There is a reason New York is lovingly dubbed the Big Apple. Good things don't always come in small packages.

New York forced me to shed the cloak I was hiding in. It reinforced a sense of independence that, despite unseen threats, managed to awake in me a desire to make the city my playground. I longed to swim amid blinding lights and colossal buildings, to weave my way through the twinkling stars that surround the city in a dreamy haze of endless summer.

The New York I love is built on a field of multicolored lights and cosmopolitan dreams. The New York I love is above ground, where it lures the ambitious into dreams of success and fame, knowing quite well that it is but an illusion--hard to let go of, yet easy to shatter.

The New York I love is a complicated network of streets and buildings which, despite its seemingly welcoming aura, is equally indifferent to the faint-hearted as to those looking for adventure. But once it warms your heart, it is hard to untangle yourself from its grasp--even if it made you lose your way and tested your patience.

Welcome to New York.

To Move or Not To Move

Moving into a new house can be both a life-changing experience and a thrilling adventure. Each person is unique in how he or she deals with change. Some responses are healthy coping mechanisms, while others may prove detrimental to one's well-being. All I know is that the process of leaving one’s childhood home, and crossing over into the realm of a new one, is depressing at best, and daunting at worst. These are the times that test my inner strength, and I'm smart enough to know I'm powerless to change what's already been set in motion.  

Third-party observers might be oblivious to the conflicting emotions clashing within me. But inside, a storm rages on. Without a warning, I steel myself as a wave of nostalgia crashes over me, tossing me against the rocks and leaving me floating face up. All the while the memories created through the years and the secrets whispered wash up on shore briefly, their essence slowly merging with the sea. 

Packing has stirred memories I thought I'd buried miles and miles beneath the earth's surface. 

The ghost of memories past floats around the room, uncontrollably and recklessly, unwilling to absent itself and plunging into the conscious mind, where it plays a movie which I know all too well--life. (A room which bore witness to adolescent angst, raging hormones and baser emotions, now awaits a new occupant.) Lingering in this hormone-filled space is the formidable spirit of youth, engrained in the fabric of this perfectly imperfect abode.

The air is redolent of dirty laundry and dust. A bookshelf stands in the far corner of the room. A myriad of books sit on the shelves (most vampire fiction), their pages bent and frayed—a sign they have been read one too many times. Their covers battered and abused. A thin layer of dust covers almost every square inch of this dimly-lit cave, no matter how many times I dust and vacuum. (Clearly a mischief from the god of dust.)

The drawers of a single dresser are half open. Underwear and socks spill out of them. Deodorants, a brush, and sanitary napkins, along with an undergraduate course catalog and my class schedule, clutter the surface of the dresser. I've never bothered to arrange them neatly; I’m not as organized a person as I've led myself to think.

Today, I packed a decade of books into five boxes, careful not to damage their fragile exterior. A decade of memories, of tears and accomplishments trapped in a room that witnessed my leap from childhood to adulthood. I spent a decade memorizing the smallest details: the pink walls, the popcorn ceiling, the chipped paint. A cobweb dangling above my bed. The desk covered with textbooks and magazines. A lamp. More dust. A wooden door. 

I weaved through boxes, knowing that in a few days' time I would be starting life elsewhere. 

It suddenly occurred to me that I expected our residence to be permanent. Change was slung at me like a boulder from a catapult, and I can’t help feeling the brunt of the blow. It’s always been inevitable. 

There will always be more opportunities to create new memories, to collect the little shells that we carry with us always--wherever we go, whenever we go.