If staring at the skyline of downtown Manhattan could put me anywhere I felt most suitable for me to go, it’d be in the room with George Harrison as he wrote “Behind that Locked Door.” I’m certainly not the only soul on this island personifying New York as a genie in a bottle. I’d fill a whole apartment with porcelain and glass if I really believed this place could take me where I wanted to go. And again, it doesn’t matter, because I seem to have faith it will take me where I need to go. I’ve hoarded ideas of a life I believe I am worth living, pack-ratted my pain and my wishes like books in the public library.
I suspect George Harrison must have had a clue. To have written a song asking someone else to let their heart out from its cage suggests he knew how hearts burst, crawl, fade into freedom. Then again, how many tables have I sat at the end of, beds I’ve laid on the edge of, and sidewalks I’ve paced back and forth on, begging my own partners in crime and in love to let out their hearts. And I do not have a clue.