Bow Bridge in the winter. Central Park. New York City.
I miss the snow.
I miss the silence: deafening silence punctuated by small breaths signifying flutters of life in a world swallowed by the sinking, seductive embrace of serenity.
That type of serenity isn’t easy to come by in a city that moves faster than the speed of hope: it’s frenetic core blinked into existence by anxious dreamers.
If I hold still, very still, for just a moment and close my eyes, I can paint my serenity memory on the backs of my eyelids.
In this moment the world stops rotating long enough and my breath reverberates alongside the earth’s heartbeat.
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