You always have a wish, or a fantasy, about this city. Maybe you're just thinking of that city to drop a cigarette butt. Maybe spit. In the past, you can run around for it, for its expensive grandiosity and your expensive dreams, humbly in its arms, looking for a fresh way out.
Of course what are you here for. Everyone is looking for something. The dream is too bright, and it is accidentally blown by the foul air of the city, making it difficult to distinguish. But at the end of the day, you are left. and this city. You are familiar with its blood and breathing, in which hides your insignificant sorrow and joy. But as for life, isn't that the end of it?
People who are obsessed with the city can always find their way through the clouds, even if it is only a dead end. Even the wet neon sign that lights up on the street when the night is dark after the rain in winter has a kind of comforting power. You can't wait to return to its indifferent and lively embrace, all the craving for contempt turned to ashes.
I don't know whether to be happy or unwilling.
But in the end, you still love it—it's a city you can't afford and can't explain. There are people who meet and leave, there are people who are happy, sad, angry, entangled, scrambled, frustrated... Everyone has their own experiences and the story they are looking for. A story may be a kind of life.
The world is too big, we are too small. Love is too small. Once you say goodbye you can be sure to never see you again, and the next one can always be about how the city is so small. Every point of the rush is not staggered, probably not surprising. So what kind of luck should we meet once again, although you are neither surprised nor cherished.
Then give the stranger next to you a smile and say how amazing it is. Perhaps you are all just parasitic in this city with broken wishes and pasts. Then you find love. Love is surprising and unexpected when it is born and when it dies. In such a big city, you even doubt whether your little emotions have survived. ——But the days are always beautiful. At the wedding, the bride blooms with a flower-like smile. The old couple supports each other and repeats the same monotonous conversation every day. The father holds the little daughter's hand and plays hide and seek with the sun. Among them are the best flukes, once inhabited and parasitized in this city, allowing you to mix in your pity for yourself.
You doubted and fell, glamorous and embarrassed. It's the one that carries your past and dreams, maybe it's part of you. You love it, hate it, but never abandon it and run away. It's a battle with no enemies, you win your hustle and bustle life, like an expensive catharsis hanging in a shop window; you lose only by the third-rate writers on the street, flirting with cigarettes and prostitutes. You have nothing to lose, but you are destined to keep losing.
You never owned the city, you only had the city.
View more about New York, I Love You reviews
