Wake Up
It’s seven o’clock in the morning. I don’t know exactly what time it is, but the entirety of the bright ass sun is beaming through my window, shining directly at my eyelids. I’ve learned to tell time using the angle of the sun through my window which faces East. When the sun is directly scorching my eyes, I know that it’s sometime between seven and eight in the morning. If not, it’s earlier or later. I try to go back to sleep by throwing all of pillows on top of my head to block out the light. No chance.
It’s only seven o’clock in the morning and my mind is already racing with a heartbeat to match. There is so much that needs to be done today, so many people to see, so many places to visit. This is the mindset of the city; the sounds of hustle and bustle at all times of day are ingrained in everybody. The fear of falling behind motivates even the most unmotivated of people. The feeling of having to always be doing something flows through one’s body like blood in the veins. Afterall, the people are the lifeline of the city. Everything here has been touched by human hands.
Today, the pressure of the city has especially gotten to me. I need to go explore something. I need to make something of myself. If I don’t, I’m sure to get passed up by the next man. Today, I contemplate going to Brooklyn or Central Park to write in my journal and take in the ever changing sights and sounds of the city. That may not be much, but at least I would be “doing” something. I gaze outside of my bedroom window for just a quick second to take in the view, before I start my day.
Views
Immediately my sight focuses on the Queensborough Bridge, a beautifully designed and crafted cantilever gateway connecting one of the most prestigious, or maybe pretentious areas of the city, Upper East Side Manhattan, to an area that I constitute as “the real world,” Queens. A person can start on one side of the bridge and get off on the other side in a world completely opposite of everything they know. I find this, the intertwinement of all types of people and lives, to be the most beautiful aspect of the bridge.
I can only see the side of the bridge from my window, which is also amazing in and of itself given that I am five stories above the street. I come to the conclusion that the top of the bridge must be at least ten to fifteen stories above ground. Regardless, I am close enough to the bridge to where I can hear every single car, bus, and truck that passes on top. It could be four o’clock in the morning and I could guarantee you that there would be delivery trucks, taxis, and workers going to and from their jobs, honking for seemingly no good reason at all. You gotta understand that these people have places to be and every second stick in traffic is a second of wasted time. If there wasn’t noise in this city, I would make the assumption that everybody decided to quit on their dreams.
As I pan my focus to the left of the bridge I see Roosevelt Island, a long island sitting directly in the middle of the East River, in-between Manhattan and Queens. The bridge passes on top of the island, but does not have an exit to get on. Roosevelt is like a nice blend of Manhattan and Queens, not too pretentious, but nicer than most places in the city.
There’s a tram system that connects Roosevelt to Manhattan, elevated at least forty feet in the air. While inside the tram, you can see the entire East Side, an amazing feat given that you sometimes can’t even see the sky in the city. The tram happens to pass just a couple feet from my window as it comes to its stop on 59th and 2nd, so close that I can make out every single identity in the tram car, every single passing dream and desire.
I like to wave or throw up the peace sign to the passengers, in hopes that they notice me and give me the sign back. Everybody here wants to be noticed in some way or another. Mine happens to be with a smile and a peace sign.
As I look down, I can see the edge of Manhattan, where 60th street intersects York Ave. Just outside my vision through the window is a neighborhood, called Sutton Place. Equipped with red brick townhouses, skyrise apartments that house the affluent of the affluent, and a doorman outside of every entrance, this place looks like it was made to be in movies. The sidewalks have never seen a chewed piece of gum and the streets have never felt anything other than tires of foreign cars. I find myself walking up and down York street almost everyday, dreaming of what it would be like to permanently reside here. Sometimes I give the sidewalks a little scuff from my shoes just to show it what most sidewalks have to go through. Call it character building.
Continuing to lower my gaze, I see a huge white bubble tent with brown age spots on top, sitting directly under the Queensborough Bridge. It’s not particularly fitting for the area, considering everything else is beautifully designed, crafted with marble, or brick, or smooth brownstone. Every building, every sidewalk, every sign, serves a purpose in adding to the beauty and exclusivity of this area. This bubble tent thing sticks out like a sore thumb, comparatively.
For months I wondered what this tent was, assuming it was something industrial, such as a plumbing or sewer system of some kind. One day I decided that I had had enough of wondering, so I walked down the block to check it out. To my surprise, or maybe not, I learned that it is a private indoor tennis facility, holding at least six pristine tennis courts and the wealthy that can afford to pay for an indoor tennis club. I was right. Everything here is for a reason. Everything serves its purpose.
Looking Out to See Within
Well, it is now three o’clock in the afternoon and I have done nothing today but look outside of my window. My plans for the day are now but a pipe dream. But I’m not tripping. Truthfully, this is my usual daily routine. And I could do nothing but look outside of this window for the rest of my life and be content. Everytime I look out of this window, I get a new insight on life. Every person, every car, every building, every piece of trash on the sidewalk comes with its own story of life.
Just as it is guaranteed that New York will never sleep, it is a guarantee that I will learn something new every time I look outside of a window, wherever that may be. This isn’t my first window, nor will it be my last. I’ve been places. I’ve looked through windows with a views of nothing and I’ve looked through windows like this one, where life can be seen at every corner.
I am a firm believer that we are a product of our environment. And the more environments we put ourselves in, the more we become. Even on days like today, where I have done nothing tangible, made not a dollar, and not left my bedroom, I have still have managed to accomplish something very real, finding myself. I tell myself that I am not falling behind. I am not wasting my time. I am growing.
*Go look outside your window. Take a step back and just look. Take in your thoughts. Feel something, anything.*