There is no real difference between now and then, except for you and me of course and the age of our existence. There is no more difference between us and then, except for this, us, still being the way we are, —still hoping to be the way we dream to be, which is young, always young, and always hopeful, eager to feel and eager to laugh.
I want to feel the way we do when the sun comes up and hits the garden at Central Park near 116th street on a summery morning, where, in the middle of nowhere in the city life, there was a scene, which could have been from a movie; —as if New York City became this totally different world because of a little garden with a slate-stone walk-around, lined be specimens of trees, the kind that seems royal and regal; enough to give someone the feel of storybook reasons to walk around and love someone so much that you’d though time could stand still.
Meanwhile, the downtown and uptown difference was indifferent to me, which means if given the proper circumstances, and in the right atmosphere, everything could be indifferent as far as indifference goes, and then there could be no more you or me, or you and me, or anything else; no more labels, no more societal guidelines, nothing more to coerce or conform me or you for that matter. And then there could be us, and I mean just us, which rhymes with justice, which is all anyone could ask for; to find justice in their life and to be justified, satisfied, like those seeking holy answers from an attitude based on their Gods.
She is like a dream to me. Well, you are, actually.
Yet alive and well, yet thinking too much, yet never sleeping like the forever insomniac that I am, never fully rested but always hopeful of my dreams that come, of you, of my home and my homes within my homes, in secret compartments, which always resonate with me because this teaches me more about my one life.
I say this because I am more than one. I am more than this. I am more than you or me and I am more than you and me together.
At least, I hope to be because I hope to be something a bit more than just extraordinary. This way you will only see me the way I dream that you’ll see me, —as desirable.
I want to feel this way, every day, with the sun on my face, in the middle of this great big world and feel as though nothing matters. And nothing else does matter—except for this, except for you and me and the dreams we share because aside from this, there is no one else.
There is nothing else but us, this way, which is the only way I want to be, insulated by you for the rest of my life without worry because, quite honestly, who cares if we fail?
Who cares if we fall, if we dance, if we laugh until the morning comes because who else cares but us?
Along the way, I have stumbled across many things throughout my life. I have seen different places and felt different things for different people. I have found myself on rooftops, alone, watching the sun go down over my great big city.
I have found myself wondering about this path of mine, which has been sometimes dusty, sometimes dirty, but most times curious, and all times searching for the absolute meaning of my existence. And I wonder to myself, as if to ask, “Is this it? Is this my life,” or, “Is this what we’re doing right now?”
There have been days I climbed to the roof of a building above Lexington, looking down to the street from several hundred feet above. I watch the cabs whiz through streets and Kamikaze pedestrians beam through touristy people that stop and look up at things, like say for example, the spire on top of the Chrysler Building.
This sort of proves my yin and yang, the in and out, and the whole coexistence of our world because everyone is looking for something, same as you and me, and every one of us needs something (same as you and me.)
We all need someone the same as I need you, or the same as I need to breathe, or think, or to have that good old feeling of sipping from my cup of coffee when the sun comes up from the east.
And I love it this way, the sun, the morning, and the world is just waking up.
The upcoming sunrise warms the face of my city’s buildings with an orange glow, reflective against the glassy windows on sky scrapers.
The morning glow comes to the point where each window on each building reflects the sky thousand different television sets, and so me being me and you being you, I stand up here during moments like this to welcome the sun —and hopefully, I hope that somewhere out there —you are thinking of me this way too.
I often see one of the falcons that fly overhead. It’s a rare thing to see falcons in the city, but we have them.
I don’t know where he (or she if she is one) stays, but I always wish I could see this falcon up close. I see this bird as a dream. I see its flight as hope because it too is majestic and regal, flying high above us all, looking down with only God to know its thoughts.
I want to feel that way too, up high, above, which is why I have this fascination with rooftop dreams.
I like it up there, on the roof, I mean. I am high enough above the drama. I am away from the interpersonal nonsense and the water coolers conversations, like daytime soap operas at work that exchange tragedy for gossip. This is what churns the rumor factories with character assassinations. and you’d thought you seen enough of this in high school, but no, we’ve only graduated on to something else on a more professional level of assholes and big mouths.
I am telling you this from the heart, by the way.
All of me, bizarro or not, this is still me.
I know that somewhere, no matter where I am, there must be something beautiful, which is why I think about that garden in central Park, like something out of a fairy-tale, which is actually located by the project apartment buildings of Harlem, which is not to say Harlem has not changed or that Harlem is anything like the Harlem of old.
Or, more certain, I can say this section of Harlem is nothing like the Harlem I recall when I had a different dependency, —but either way, in the middle of the city is a place where I found a spot to sit and feel the warmth of the summer morning on my face.
I did not hear anything except for the quiet of natural silence, and to be honest, for the moment, all else was perfect because of the sanctuary I found in my heart
Beautiful, perfect, and boundless . . .
because of you.
The Written Addiction 
Really beautiful writing.