Saturday, August 6, 2011
They say it's the city that never sleeps. But judging from the quiet deadness I've taken note of as of late during my early morning runs, I strongly beg to differ. Perhaps we live in the city that doesn't sleep during the nighttime hours. But I am personally not living in a city of folks who are awake in the morning. Close observation has demonstrated that during non-work time hustle hours or peak happy hours, inhabitants of the city o apple hide away. On certain days when I am running solo along the east river, peacefully overlooking the sun rising over the water, I could almost mistakenly perceive myself to be in the country. An ambitious girl running furiously solo along a dirt road. But I am not. I am scurrying hurriedly on the upper east side of Manhattan. And so I see. In this supposed city that doesn't sleep, I know the truth. This always-rushed, constantly stressed breed of humans betray their name. They crave sleep, long for the nighttime to finally sit down. Breathe. Rest. And ultimately give in to that human instinct that even the east coast cannot deny: the need to stop if only for a few fleeting moments. Until it's morning once again. And that early hour lull dissipates once again. When the hustle starts all over. And then, once again, this crazy island can claim, for a moment, to live up to its name.