We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. ...The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.

John Steinbeck- Travels with Charley

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While I was sitting in a café in Manhattan, I scribbled the following response a week into my trip:

There is no such thing as quiet in New York City. An overwhelming frustration, a tense feeling pulsating through my veins, through my blood, circulating through my finger tips as it grips my pen. I need a cigarette, the short term gratification of smoke inhalation into my lungs, the instant burning my throat, a stifling cough, the giving-me-5-minutes-of-time-to just-Be . There is an overwhelming frustration. I cannot have a cigarette.

There is an overstimulation. Time moves quicker, as if it speeds up alongside the subway, the blurring edges of the underground iron-clad triangular bridges and support. Time is in speed with the subway and the faces of strangers staring ahead, unmoving like soft clay masks. Above, there is a maze that is lined with street numbers, east, west, northeast, northwest, Names, Parks, People, Places, Things. Right now, I do not like New York City. Immersed, inundated and surrounded by so many people you become invisible. It is like I do not even exist at this table as I sip my coffee and write.

It is like I don't even exist.

The women sitting next to me has fierce knee high leather boots. Her legs are crossed, her palms down on each one of her thighs. She is discussing the deterioration of a friend who does drugs. She talks about the vapid, momentary reality that drugs contain. She talks about cocaine. She says it’s something like an addictive caffeine. She talks about her own ego. She sips her coffee. Her friend is unresponsive.

I think about momentary time, the time that speeds along with me on the subway, the immersion of people to become invisible, the lack of cigarette and the overwhelming frustration.