this may or may not be about someone you've never met

black book


I seem to have blinked this year and missed all the changing falling leaves. It seems I fell in love in September, and now there is snow on the ground and a shiver through my bones - as my heater is still broken. 

The view from my bedroom is very New York iconic. Even with the horrendous soul sucking bankrolling handfuls of blocks and neighborhood foreclosures at a time, my view still somehow effortlessly soothes like a sweet immaculate Sunday morning. And from it I can see the majestic skyline and birds flying to wires, and the projects and buildings for fat pockets, the sun and moon, and legs tanning on the roof across the way. I see backyards of artwork and parties and garbage and pets, and can hear children's laughter from the playground next door as I sit and watch little lives dance around behind curtains.

Directly across from me is a girl with the most tiniest window who can never decide what to wear. Slightly left of her is a man who can accomplish nearly anything while laying across his beanbag chair WITH his computer in his lap. He'll throw open his window, lean out the fire escape to smoke a cigarette and slam it down once roached. His fire escape is hardly more than decoration; there are no stairs connecting the floors creating the promised escape route, and the whole of it seems to be dangling at nails' last wit.

All the way to the right of me are three cats. I like to think that they know me now. My best friend and I coo at them to draw their little noses and paws to press against the window. At night, their owner comes home and watches garbage on a big screen TV from a lazy-boy. 

In the center of this, standing at three stories high, with heavy gated windows is an unidentifiable building. I have consulted many a friend in hopes of deciphering this building's purpose. What address could it have? How can one access? Of course, what the hell is done in there? Why are the lights never on? Why are there the big heavy duty gates barring the windows? What the fuck is happening in there?! 

The city feels sludged on and weighed on and sad. I feel so swamped here I hardly go outside. Or I could say I'm a creature of habit following in my father's footsteps.  After all, he really is a lovely man, after all. 

The sky has looked like morning all day.  I won't begin to describe it to you beyond that it's really feeling like that sweet hazy kind of Sunday. But when it's not Sunday, like today, the day, though model, feels strange, not ready to come back to this world but still being squeezed out of wherever whatever was left. Which leaves me smoking on edge.

Micaela Silberstein