Countless sweaty faces pass me on the river in the morning. It soothes the soul to watch the rolling waves as the sun comes up. Peace shouldn’t feel so out of reach. I get aggravated sometimes walking through the motions. But then I see the ocean and remember what’s important.

I’m afraid to grow up, but I know stability brings peace. I’m tired of feeling out of sorts. I’m tired of doing things that make me anxious; I’m tired of fear.

It soothes the soul knowing every person who I pass feels life’s aches and pains.

Yet we’re here.

All I gotta be is here.

If we’re just a speck of dust, how does all of this exist? We built cities that persist, but what about the blue sky and the morning moon? If we were all gone, would the sky stay blue? Would the rain still fall with nobody to fall onto?

We’re here to simply feel the sun. Travelers of light. It all goes so quickly.

In the evening, I find some grass or a bench, or even just a stair set. It’s something they don’t tell you about city life. Everybody’s moving. But you don’t have to.

I came here for the opportunity, the growth, the inspiration. But that’s not the only reason.

I came here just to be.

Not solely seeking dopamine kicks, I’m here to run my own race; it’s hard sometimes to go against the grain. I treat the city like the country, lying in the grass with my shoes off.

I spend a lot of time looking at the sky.

I want to be seen, but what’s more important is seeing.

There’s so much to see, and only so much that comes from living to be seen.

I’m not here to keep up. I’m here to be me—enamored by the gait of day to day living. I can live a country life in the most vibrant city in the world; what I love about New York is the community.

It’s so damn cool, constantly surrounded by people my age; building community with like-minded folks. I think if you’re here, you’re here for the adventure. That’s what you’ll find every day in this town.

I wake up, and while I have my routine, I can’t say precisely what’s gonna go down. What scene will I witness? Who will I talk to? As much as I can, I try to slow down, observe, and savor the insignificant moments. We’re alive. This is all there is, and it’s enough.

What magic shall transpire on the way to the grave?

I have some family lore in New York. I finally went to the New York Public Library, where my great great great uncle Oscar Lion’s name is emblazoned on the entrance with a handful of others. Apparently he was a leading collector of Walt Whitman’s poetry and donated his collection to the library.

It was a cool place to work on my book, as it felt like Hogwarts with a massive study hall, endless books, ornate chandeliers, and murals of the sky on the ceiling. It feels like I’m channeling some epic lineage going to write where my grandfather did the same, and there’s more lore yet to uncover…

A couple of weeks ago I was running in Brooklyn before the World Cup semi-final and stumbled upon an outdoor watch party put on by this quaint French restaurant. They set up a big projector and seats under some mature trees at the end of a cul-de-sac.

I’ll always remember this World Cup during my first summer in the city. The game would be on at the corner store, or the commentary would come from somebody’s phone on the sidewalk, and I’d feel a part of something.

At the party, I kicked a soccer ball around with a kid, as there were some goals set up. After the game rain clouds rolled in. The clouds were dusky, the sky a rosy pink.

It’s about to start raining, my friend said. How bad could it be? I thought. I started my run home, and as I was crossing the Williamsburg Bridge the storm hit hard. Thunder ripping, lightning, sideways rain.

I was absolutely drenched, trotting along and smiling. I could hardly see the river below the bridge. It was just the storm and an orange sky. I got back to the other side and it let up.

There were a couple of storms like that throughout the week. On Sunday for the World Cup final, we met out at the same spot. The sun was out and the vibes were right.

This time the place was packed to the brim. When I showed up, the owner thanked me for playing with his kid the week before. That was cool. I didn’t know the kid was the owner’s son.

The experience was pretty special. I’m just trying to find myself in the chaos. I’m just trying to create, rest, feel good, have fun, and find some peace. So I’ll continue looking inward as I roam NYC; I’ll keep going for my dreams while embracing what’s in front of me.

There’s no rush. The only place we’re rushing towards is the grave.

It’s an adventure here—the action, the vibrancy, the people; it all creates this hodgepodge of opportunity, diversity, feelings and emotions. I crave the stimulation, but it’s as if I need to separate from it, observe from afar, and it’s like a foil that allows me to speculate what I truly want from life. There’s no finish line which will make me feel like I’ve made it.

I’ve made it. I hope to take it slow.

I’m flowing down the river of time, and I get confused, overwhelmed, flustered, out of sorts. I come back to my breath, a bridge to the present, and I let go again and again of the weight that doesn’t serve me. The storm clears away the past—sunlight illuminates the present.

I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I’m here, and if we’re here for no reason at all, it may as well be to ease the suffering in other human beings, and a great way to do that is through art, since art illuminates what we feel inside, and what we feel is universal. I can’t be alone in my love of the patient sky. So I’ll write about it, and maybe I’ll see you on my long twilight wandering.