…I step off the subway and realize its cold again in Brooklyn. Again the wayward clouds play their old sun-hiding trick, and again the howling wind rushes between the buildings as if it's a hardened New Yorker on the way to catch a train. Again, Brooklyn is a dismal town. Even the Bangladeshis are wondering if it was really a good idea to come here. "What were we so lacking in Bangladesh that we had to come here?" they ask each other. The Puerto Ricans are asking each other the same question.
Yet they and we still walk these streets and politely let the hurried wind pass. And for what do we trudge through this daily rat-race when we don't really need a lot of money to get by on our own? Just to buy a better one of those accident-mobiles? Why? Just to impress some pampered, self-absorbed witch who wouldn't put-up with the slightest infringement when the time came? To trap yourself in a never-ending load of responsibilities only to raise and support more of the same unappreciative takers? All to continue the circle of Brooklyn life? Perhaps it’s just a mood I get into, but again the whole cycle seems pointless to me. ..or perhaps since I haven’t quite lived yet I can’t imagine giving my life up so fast..
(I’m attempting to write in that narrative style that most people find so natural, but just seems to allude me. Just needs some getting used to, ..but I've still got a ways to go.)