New York

I think it’s very easy to hate everyone. Mostly, it’s due to the organic relationships that develop in a non-stop continuum. It happens the moment you wake. Like others, you may live in a home that is not really yours. You don’t own it. You haven’t installed any curtains. The brita filter is the same brita filter the last person who lived here used, and that last person—you didn’t really know. You may rent. And probably the lease is not in your name. Maybe you have a roommate. Another person you don’t really know. Maybe he’s right outside your door. He’s at the breakfast table, waiting, your door will open sometime, and he’ll be right there; ready to be your first ‘good morning.’ You could live alone, and upon opening your eyes, you focus on a book shelf. The books don’t look familiar, except for the fact, they were the same unfamiliar books you saw yesterday. They’re not yours, you haven’t read them, and they look at you like they know you.

You’re off! Through the door and onto the stairs. The lady on 1A has her door open again as you wonder why she’s wants her neighbors to see her spraying crap in her hair. Maybe you never realized how old she is. Maybe you wish you didn’t accept her invitation to tea, listen to her woes, get woken up by her alarm clock. The guy in 2C, has his door ajar, plumes of smoke wafting through the halls, the distant echo of his fire alarm, “fire” “fire.”

You’re off into the world and the school next to you is filled with rugrats and large rodents that scatter and jibe and say things like, “She HAS to,” and “Who said what?” and “Yeah! Yeah!” and “Who she said gone mark down for who?” Yes, the songs of the morning and maybe (just maybe) the animals will part, allowing you to walk on a shared surface, instead of forcing you to the curb, as your Polish family was forced circa 1939. And you’re not even in the subway.

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