I used to be able to write.

Two summers ago, specifically.

I was sober,

had two jobs,

almost always broke.

This isn’t to say I was happy but,

according to my own abstract metrics,

I was doing better than most:

Regularly brushing my teeth, flossing after 25% of my meals,

running,

I was running a lot.

Back and forth across the Williamsburg Bridge,

sometimes the Brooklyn Bridge if I wanted tourists to gawk at me,

sometimes the Manhattan Bridge if I wanted to dance for commuters,

or just wave at them.

New Yorkers never wave.

My waves were an expression of solidarity,

a way to get people to smile,

because no one’s happy about having to stand for an hour during a rush-hour commute home.

I wrote about work.

About being an anonymous barista, or an anonymous server,

delivering food in the dark rooms of a movie theater.

I wrote when one of my bosses no longer felt I was adequate enough to be an anonymous barista,

for reasons only bosses understand, speaking in their selfishly scripted tongues.

I wrote about being an anonymous face on the train,

back when we used to ride the train,

when I always had a book but barely read,

when I would try to archive every face on a subway cart,

when I would put my book down as we’d approach a stop,

Myrtle-Broadway, West 4th , Delancey.

The rhythm of the entrances and exits fascinated me.

Where is everyone going?

New Yorkers don’t wave, but they dance.

They dance around one another.

An avoidant choreography.

It’s now two years later.

Last year, two of my bosses no longer felt I was adequate enough to be an anonymous server,

for reasons the three of us understood,

seeing as how I punched someone at the company holiday party,

for reasons only I understood, as I speak my own selfishly scripted tongue.

I no longer work,

barely ever ride the train—

the faces are gone.

I forgot to tell you that I used to go on walks,

perhaps because I wanted you to know that I used to run.

But I used to walk, too.

Long silent walks,

like the John the Baptist in a big t-shirt.

I still remember my last long silent walk,

last February.

It was sunny, a bit windy, and just cold enough.

I left school in the early afternoon,

ceremoniously stared up at the Empire State Building,

nodded at no one in particular,

and began walking downtown.

A few blocks from school and the Empire State Building,

I came upon a trashcan hosting a small fire,

I stopped and stared,

breaking my stare to look around at passers-by who couldn’t be bothered,

Nodding at them to no avail.

I took a picture of the small fire and kept walking.

Somewhere in between Midtown Manhattan and the East Village, it hit me:

The next few years of my life are going to be filled with long silent walks,

maybe I won’t be treated to small trashcan fires on every walk,

but I’d be able to talk to myself,

laugh with myself,

nod at no one or nothing in particular.

This realization made me happy.

The happiness didn’t last.

In the year since this quickly thwarted realization, things have happened.

We were herded indoors,

forcibly becoming citizens of virtuality,

a few months after that,

injustices herded us outdoors,

and we nodded at not-so-small trashcan fires on a nightly basis,

we built a commune,

becoming voluntary citizens of an imperfect utopia.

But then we were herded indoors again,

forcibly becoming citizens of neoliberalism’s second attempt to end history,

where trashcan fires have been replaced with empty representation,

And here we are.

You and me, pal.

It’s sunny today.

A bit windy and just cold enough.

But the day has already begun.

I’m looking out my window,

six days after my 29th birthday,

realizing I used to be able to write.