Nothing to Prove

I woke this morning all fired up as usual and headed out to get some travel soap and shampoo and at was 8:40 am and nobody was around. I always like weekend mornings in New York for this very reason. It's so calm.

It was raining and the wind was just gusting enough to make me feel like a hot shower might be preventative medicine and not just a morning ritual. I got the soap and a hot chocolate, headed back to my apartment, and sat there.

I wrote a little.

I looked out the window across the street at the now defunct Caffe Vivaldi. Years ago I used to play there and it's just another empty restaurant front now, with a sign saying "for lease". Do you want me? Do you want to make your dreams happen with me? It'll cost you.

I dug into my work, writing and rewriting. And a few hours passed and I got more and more defeated. Why do we make things hard, I wonder? Everything is simple, isn't it? Why do we think we need to put filagree and persuasion and optimism and good lighting on what is already ok just like it is?

There is nothing to prove.

A truck was idling and the fumes were seeping through the window cracks to an alarming degree. I put on my jacket, scarf and hat and went out to the driver, tapping on the window.

"How long are you planning to idle?" I asked with a bright eyed smile. I figured I'll walk in the drizzle until he's gone, and shake off the morning decline.

"I can turn it off," he said, turning the key.

"Oh, that's cool. The fumes are getting into my apartment and I thought I'd walk around."

"Sorry."

"No worries. Thanks!" I was pleased with the unexpected turn. I walked down Bleeker and ended up at a pastry shop for a chocolate eclair.

Back at the apartment I boiled some water for tea and looked over my work again.

Nope.

It's January and it's raining and there is a chill. My work still looked idiotic and out of place and now my afternoon plan to visit a museum looked like a torturous walk through the damp air for a display of human creativity that I can't quite enjoy myself.

I just want to sleep. It's a surprisingly great bed and blankets seem more appealing than Frank Lloyd Wright.

I can listen to the murmur of voices walking past my loose windows, garbage trucks, the soft rush of tires in the distance on wet pavement, engines and sirens stabbing through the stillness of a Saturday afternoon, across from vacant places.

There is really nothing to prove.