Maybe it was my overwhelming amazement of the climbing Freedom Tower or the abandoned sadness of the empty seats of a once raucous Shea Stadium. Could it have been the sheer wonder of midtown's building's standing with straight backs in allegiance to their leader on 34th Street. Possibly it was one emotion or a sum of the city's parts, but something grabbed my heart as I scanned the island's landscape and it didn't let go.
I am sorry New York. I really do owe you an apology. I've let my waves of nausea, sickening reflect my feelings about you. I have left the empty ache in my belly be filled with contempt towards exactly what makes you great. I have spit bile into the bowels and let the metallic taste in my mouth leave me with the ill thought of your existence and my place in it. Please forgive me.
I love you. I've adored claiming you as my own, my way. And as I close the door on the incessant, towering madness, I realize I've forgotten the longing once endured to be a part of you. A part of it. How silly of me.
So I need to say this out loud.
Or I fear I'll watch the elusive genie go back in his bottle and I will be left wishing he grant me that last chance to give homage to this grand illusion known as the greatest city in the world.
Thank you New York. Thank you.
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