Substrate

Gifts, old friends, someone else’s life.

There were weeks where New York City felt like a quiet, burning city. Dying and silent, except for the 24 hour sirens. I have a video on my phone of ambulance lights through my bedroom curtain, the ambulance lighting the room like the world’s saddest disco ball.

The window to write this, I know, has passed. The subject has been exhausted, what happened has happened and we are here. The day after, I walked through a North Carolina airport in a determined daze—crying and deliberately looking any stranger who would let me, right in the eyes. I was manic and furious and the task felt aggressive. It felt like my right. More people than you would think met my sobbing gaze. Each time, I would look away first.