A long, slow bike ride through a better neighborhood than mine to be “introspective,” finding myself (physically) at a ferry pier that extends far enough into the East River to make one feel landless and with all Manhattan’s high-rise glory sprawled in front, demanding attention.
“Who am I?” I ask the choppy cobalt waters. “What am I doing with my life?”
The post-storm gusts are angry, forceful, “I don’t know,” snap the seas, “Maybe you should stop pretending you’re in a fucking movie with this panoramic soul-searching shit and figure that out.”
I sigh. The river is right. I am an idiot.