big apple

the end of august is always a strange time of the year, at least for me. the air feels soft and everything slips away from my fingers. it’s when i grow a bit older and it’s when i celebrate my birthday. maybe if i took a magnifying lens and searched follicle after follicle, maybe i could even find a grey hair. or maybe not. i’m only 21. august is humid. the sky is filled with wet stains of light and loud natural symphonies. grasshoppers and crickets sing their songs loud and clear and, with my ears still and my eyes closed, i forget about time listening to the bugs and their hypnotic music. sometimes a light breeze will brush against my eyelids. it’s nice. in the summertime all i want is to lay down with my spine touching the grass and fall asleep under a tree, with cars murmuring far away and the music i forgot to turn off still whispering from my headphones. and that’s the way the month goes: cross legged on the concrete, my palms starts to melt into nothingness. it’s the time of the year when my bag is overflowing with bus tickets and i find in my pockets melting caramel candies i forgot about. summer is ending and it’s always bittersweet. this year, for my birthday, i wanted to spend sometime alone. i overpacked and brought too many cameras, too many things. i booked my flight and i tied my shoes real tight. i could go anywhere with a double knot. so i went to new york city. it was my first time traveling by myself but i wasn’t scared. i was so excited i could almost hear soft buzzing coming from my brain, something that reminds me of when you’re biking downhill, faster and faster, and after letting your feet go from the pedals it’s as if you’re breathing energy and becoming one with the wind. the wheels keep turning and turning, drawing imaginary dotted lines on the road. with me i brought my film camera, my glasses, my pens, my notebook, my skirts. but no book, because i knew i wouldn’t have trouble finding them there. at the airport i walked around with sleepy eyes and my red passport in hand. when i look at it i see a picture of me from a few years ago - i was maybe 17. i’m turning 21 now. i think i’m still the same person. in new york the air was sweet, so sweet it was almost syrupy. leaves were stuck to my shoes and the sidewalk kept swallowing every step. every street had a fruit vendor selling strawberries that were too ripe and stacked pints of blueberries. i had so many i thought i was going to turn blue. i stuffed my pockets with folded five dollar bills and bought cinnamon raisin bagels in every corner i could find. in the morning the city was brush painted with butter and my walks to the museums lasted forever. throughout the day the sidewalks became sardine tins, with people coming from all directions - elbows tucked in and all. jaywalking became a second instict, and then the sun would set. the subway slipped away into never ending dark tunnels and its rhythm made you sleepy, like being on a rocking chair after a long day. with my metro card in my phone case, i still walked so much that after a while i thought that my soles must have become paper thin. i was always lost in goggle maps screenshots and clouds of vapour coming from restaurant basements. the view stretched on and on forever. everything reminded me of something. absorbed in my own thoughts i stared at the melting ice cubes in my iced coffee and thought about how the last couple of years have been a whirlwind. it’s hard to explain, but it felt as if my sleeves were constantly pulled left and right. a few years ago, four now that i think about it, i moved overseas and left everything behind. i couldn’t bring much, so i packed light and stuffed everything i couldn’t bring with me in my head. with faces and names still hidden behind my eyelids, the years went by. i looked at the streetlights turning on as the world went dim, thinking about how i must have said no more than two hundred words that day. soon enough i turned into a small blue light, an arrow leaving dotted lines down avenues and squares. i went to so many museums, and saw so many things, people street signs and whatnot. i listened to the same three albums on my Spotify that i forgot i downloaded months and months ago and sent my sister pictures of Picasso paintings - he’s her favourite. i washed fruit with bottled water sitting down on the steps of cobblestone townhouses. i was by myself, me and my heartbeat. i thought of my family and friends. i took so many pictures in 21 years. in between sirens i saw doubles of books i have back home in my bedroom and doppelgängers of people from the past. i eaves dropped conversations in delis and diners, pretending to read. sweet smiling faces from the metro station disappeared in a blink. everything became a puzzle piece, spread out on a big dining wooden table. scattered receipts, and all, it’s an undone puzzle - but it already looks so clear. and when you get used to the sirens, the city almost falls silent.