Barefoot in the heavenly April air after frolicking through Central Park, I’m sitting on the roof watching the 7 o’clock sun stain the Empire State Building pale gold with the ever-racing heart in my chest. It beats like a disconsolate, old country ballad, like a carpet beater against a wool rug.
Tonight for the first time in my conscious life, it’s just a racing heart to me. Not a train of thought I must board, not an internal F5 tornado that requires a pill to subdue, not a judgement I need to pass on someone else, not an acrobat I need to perform, not a love I must earn, not a curse word I must blurt, not an amount of money I need procure, not a distance I must run, not a lock that is keeping me out, not a problem to solve. Just a racing heart.
An organ.
I saw a man dancing with a life-size skeleton puppet in the Union Sq subway station this afternoon.
Would you know I don’t feel nauseous anymore.
Freedom
The light on the Empire State Building is now dusty rose. It is as if I’ve never laid eyes on it before.
