I stepped out my door yesterday, headed to the theatre. Usually, I am too immersed in my own thoughts, my own life to see all of the people around me. But today I happened to see a sign.
A man, lying crumpled in a doorway, a large sign in front of him. "Trying to live" it said in big bold letters.
Though certainly his situation was more dire than some, I thought of his statement. Trying to live. At the core, that's what all of us are trying to do. And in New York City, a place where the bottom line, and your rent payment, are never far from your mind, this is sentiment resonates. This instinct binds us.
The twenty somethings sitting outside, sucking down cheap beer at Sunday Brunch, the table piled high with empties.
A woman with a blue rose, standing outside the theatre, presumably waiting for a first date.
The line of older people waiting for the elevator to the second floor of the theatre.
The older gentleman whose cane kept sinking in the sand (set decoration) as he hobbled to his front row seat.
The middle-aged women with thick New Jersey accents sitting behind me, talking about their mutual friends' failing marriage and what it meant for them.
The performer, a famous actress, waiting in the wings, preparing to perform in an intimate space.
The man who called me sexy out his open window as he drove by.
Me, lost in thoughts of the books I'm writing and the products I'm creating.
We are all just trying to live.