Invisible in New York

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
My experience in New York

Submitted: July 25, 2017

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Submitted: July 24, 2017

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It's quite. In the loudest place on earth, and its so quiet. The sounds of cars and sirens slowly fade into the background. Natures wake up call is replaced by garbage trucks and metal slats knocking against each other as roller doors are heisted up in the morning. 

I haven't spoken to anyone in days, weeks. I feel like I may have forgotten what other people sound like. My own voice in my head, the only thing keeping me company, day after day.

I go to the convenience store, desperately seeking the

"hi, how are you today?" although find that a response was not expected. The shop assistant holds out my bag over the counter, I hesitate, if I take it, I go back to myself. Looking up, seeking connection, I find that our exchange has already ended, as the shop assistants carry on their conversations with each other. They don't even look at me, and before I'm on the sidewalk I'm invisible again.

The heart and soul of this city is the art. You can feel it. With every line in an artists brushstroke at a packed gallery. In the raspiness of each note of the saxophone in a sold out jazz club. With every standing ovation in a playhouse. That's where the connection lies. Here, there is art and there is nothing. I am invisible all day, in the city, on the subway, in the parks.

But I go to the theatre at night and I have never felt more seen, more human, more alive, more vulnerable, more connected..and yet I am still alone. But I am visible in the playwrights words, in the actors performance, they see me. This connection has to be expressed to be appreciated and I go to the stage Door, and stand on the sidewalk, but no one comes, and I remember on the sidewalk and in the city I am invisible again.


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