When you're standing across from a man for ten minutes, he begins to look familiar. You wonder if you've seen him before or if a shared subway ride can really be that intimate. You close your eyes to remember his face- laugh lines, glasses, winter cap covering graying hair. You wonder what he's scribbling in his notebook, leather-bound, and what he thinks of your bed-headed, Starbucks-sipping self. The 1 pulls into Times Square. You exit. He doesn't look up.
El Diario is sitting across from The New York Times and next to a Chinese paper I will probably never understand. For a moment, three worlds align. I stand and bear witness. It's empowering in a way.
Is it possible to be exhausted yet refreshed?
Once again, I find myself with questions. Once again, the reading is responsive, and my words have been scripted, and I know what I am saying, but I do not understand. I am searching for reasons, uncovering wood and stone, rifling through memory, reading facts on Snapple caps.
The ground upon which we stand is wrought with faults.
Life is fragile.
I lean into the wind.
Life is fragile.
From this moment forward, I vow to make mine count.
