This morning felt almost like every other morning in New York city, but for that they put too much milk in my coffee. I walk towards where the sun meets dawn, where the sound of construction outsings the birds, hope in hand. No one sees me in the crisp fog of daybreak, I am a consciousness breathing through the mist. Half awake, I skip my morning courtesies with the doorwoman, the bricklayer and the man at the newspaper stand. Like watching the birds in washington heights, I allow myself to observe and be observed.
The 20 minute break that´s not a break at all we get to sit and drink our coffee in the padaria across the street is all the freedom in the world. Sunlight through jail bars, these moments are tenderly mine. Caffeine pours into the yawning streets, and I feel the day grinding with human energy. Her name is progress-we don´t always know where she´s going, or if she´s right, but we can smell her anywhere. She may not always be right, but she´s never wrong-even if all she does is keep the heart of the city beating. Like an adolescent, I am itching for growth and staring into the jungle of my dreams...
The day is resolved in a layer of sweat and dirt-which sometimes is its own achivement. I stare at all my colors in the mirror and am proud of the bronzed arms I am wearing. The dirt does not go away, I am forever tanned by this place-stronger and more beautiful. When I sleep I am an orb of restless energy, comforted by city music.
We´ll be in trouble once they teach bricks to lay themselves. But for now this morning felt just like an Ny morning-they put a little too much milk in their coffee though.
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