If you stretch out your arm, you can hold the city in the palm of your hand. If you look to the far end of the water, you will see a blur of the flickering city lights, a blur of everything you ever wanted, everything you ever dreamed of. The desire is absolute; the dream is an illusion. The magnitude of the water makes you forget yourself. You are a whisper in the glaring night; you are an illusion of your dreams. You are light, empty, floating. Then, you feel the heaviness of the wind, and you begin to sink in what is no longer a delusion. You sink in, with your thoughts, your dreams, your desires of all that is left above the deceiving, shallow waters.

I am on a Ferryboat with my companion, sightseeing, imagining myself as a New Yorker, searching for a sign. There are others among us, but I am my own dreamer, lost in my own misery. I am happy in this boat. Miserably happy to be left with nothing but water, a mild wind, and a city that always glimmers from afar. Not too long into the ride, I lose myself. And suddenly, I can hear nothing. I can feel nothing, but a deep urge to stretch out my hand, feel, touch and breathe the perfect miniature of New York City.
The realization, the awakening, the process of losing and becoming, of accepting and letting go all happens in fleeting moments. I realize, that with all its vastness and magnitude, with all its immensity, I can hold the dream in my hand. I can feel its vibe, its beating heart, its every wall, and its concrete, metallic frame. Knowing that I can hold it all in the palm of my hand awakens my dead soul. I wake to become, not a dreamer, but a believer, in solid ground, in unison with the city. I wake to become myself, a writer, an optimist. I breathe, accept the current state of being and let the dream go. I let it go because I know I have it, at any moment, at any time. I let it go because it is and will always be mine, on this page, in my head, in my heart. It is mine.
Sometimes you have to let go in order to become. Sometimes you have to take a few days, throw yourself on the dirty streets of Manhattan to know what you want. Sometimes you have to be selfish so that one day you will give to others first. Sometimes you have to believe without calling yourself a fool.
I woke up this morning, feeling nostalgic, remembering yesterday’s ride back home, remembering that morning’s gloomy sun. S and I had taken one final look at our cheap, shabby room. Outside the tiny window, old garbage and opened trash bags covered the ground. The compressed air stank of mildew and rotten food. But above the filth, above the cage-like windows, the clouds were a lively white in what looked like a watercolor painting.
As a writer, as an optimist, as a believer, you see both sides of every picture. You accept not only its authenticity, but also its dense surreality, its imperfections. You work past the flaws, past the imperfect brush strokes to get a sense of peace and satisfaction.
I can hold a perfect picture in the palm of my hands. I can let go of my fears of its imperfections. I can let go of the misery that I have put upon myself. I can wait to solidify my writing and myself. I can put myself out of ignorance. I can learn to let go of great expectations.
The city awaits, and so do my dreams and a million other stories.