The high-rise life is beautiful.
The views. The water. The stretch of the NYC skyline.
A self-contained aesthetic bubble suspended above life.
The horizon stretches wide,
but the space between people stretches wider.
Not set up for low friction ease.
A casual bite. A place to linger.
A natural rhythm of connection.
Young families. Kids. Dogs.
I’m not part of that mix.
It’s like being suspended above life rather than in it.
A tower in the sky.
Perfect from the outside.
Inside, I feel ungrounded.
My mind scans for what’s wrong.
Wants a quick fix.
Thinks of a drink.
A reminder of camaraderie.
A different time.
Could walk out.
Catch a train.
A ferry.
Step into the park.
But I don’t.
The front desk.
Obligatory pleasantries.
Forced small talk with strangers
that’s just not my thing.
A prison of my wiring.
Looking out, not walking in.
Brooklyn was neighborhoods.
Always out on the avenue.
Familiar faces.
A nod. A wave.
Being seen, without asking.
A kind of comfort.
There’s something about a city that knew you before you knew yourself.
It doesn’t let you pretend.
Now—towers.
Contrast.
Sharp edges.
California gave me skies.
Expansion.
Air to breathe.
Freedom.
Hovering above the world instead of walking in it.
Removed from the pulse of a neighborhood.
Disconnected from the ground beneath my feet.
Bi-coastal now.
Unlike then.
Healdsburg, Brooklyn.
Both beginning again.
Not the same.
Always orbiting.
Never still.
Never quite belonging.
Always observing.
Still learning to land.
Otrovert.
Life’ing: the art of grounding while still in motion.
