This was a place called home, the cement jungle of New York. I thought I would never be back to this place, yet here I am. It been 14 years since I moved away to Seattle, and now I am back to the motherland. The smell of urine and garbage filled my nose, I walked faster as to get away from it. The downside of moving was finding new dealers and the smell, my heart race as I felt a case of claustrophobia set into my nerves.

I hate how crowded this city was.

I fix the portfolio bag on my shoulder one more time and moved myself into a less crowed subway car. I hate carrying the bag around, but it was for good cause. It been two weeks since I moved back and I have yet to sell one piece of art. Or at most showcase a few pieces. The apartment I was heading towards was small, enough space for me, myself, and I (including space for drawing ). Thankfully, my computer skills earned me a job as a from home data entry employee.

The company stated that my skills would allow me to make sure no one access the file, and that I would be able to succeed their expectations. Suspicious right? I try not to pay attention to the highlighted objection of the thing. I was able to handle my computer like how I handled men.

Blunt, secretive, paranoid...well OK I was not able to let my walls down just because I was dating someone. Why should I?

I turned the volume higher in my headphones hoping to block out more noise. The subway was loud on my ears. My brown eyes skim the other NYC residents. Some were crisp, some were average, some were poor. But that what society wants, the people to intermingle. That we cannot all be equal, the people higher up want more, and the people with less just want enough to live their life.

Sometimes I hate thinking like this, I wanted to be a blank. I did not want to be sensitive to how society views me, I did not want to be visible to the wandering person's eye. I wanted to be a ghost perfectly numb within myself. Maybe that's why I do drugs, the feel of nothing, the only reaction is gasping for breath when it feels like my life source has escape me.

Telling me I am lucky to be alive in a dreaded world I call my own.


I just remember that I was down to the last few pills in my neon orange container that was 'prescribed' to me. How the hell was I suppose to find a dealer, my fingers twisted the headphones cords tightly in frustration. My eyes shift to the people around me in solution to my problem. IT was not NYC after all. One person would have to know.

My eyes lands on the person in front of me. Black hood raised over his head, his eyes shift while looking at the floor. The young man looked like he was disturbed, or maybe getting off a high. His brown eyes bugged slightly, more so naturally than medicated.

He wasn't that bad looking.

I get up at the same stop as the black hooded man who keeps his head low. I had to pull myself to reality as I recollected my tote to my side. I couldn't help but pull my phone out and snap a picture quickly. The world paints a image everyday, and today, this man was my muse. I felt a electric current of excitement as I walked towards my apartment.

How I dreaded going back to the apartment after days like this. But the new inspiration felt me more at home this time. Hopefully, my fucking neighbor wasn't there. He lived above me, that was a fact. Sometimes I know he's fucking someone, or he is pacing, and then my favorite the smell of cigarette smoke at midnight . I find it odd the smell of electrical burning randomly during the day, most likely after 5 when he usually arrives home.

I know its a male, his voice sometimes drone on in mutters, or incoherent moans as he is done being promiscuous. For the first two weeks it haunted my dreams, of a man and his moans.

I hate being noisy, but I couldn't help it.

He has a dog, and it barks when he's gone, and I can't concentrate on the data entry or art work. Sometimes I imagine going and breaking into his apartment and stealing the dog. Sometimes I imagine burning the apartment building down, but the downside would be finding a new place with just as cheap rent.

I pulled out of my thoughts. Noticing I was walking in the same directions as the hooded man. Maybe this was the bastard with the loud dog and the squeaky bed springs. I slowed down my walk to allow room to breathe between the space.

I really don't want him to notice me. He most likely notice me on the subway, but, not know I live in most likely the same apartments would mean interactions.

No, thank you.