the wild

It's interesting when something is left to grow wild. And one goes back years later. Does that something become hideous? Or does that something become beautiful.

I don't think I have ever had this experience. So I really wouldn't know.

This photograph was taken in High Line Park where this did, indeed, happen. But it was taken back from the wild, and it became manicured wild. Does that mean the wild wasn't beautiful enough for the average human. Or did the city merely get a good idea from nature?

"Thanks, Nature. That looks nice, but we'll take it from here," they said.

Nature's pissed.

Nature was doing fine on its own.

Nature liked how things were shaping up down there--how things were coming together on their own.

Or perhaps Nature was trying to make a point.

And Nature always wins.

In the end.

tapping

She was fairly certain the anticipation was going to kill her. She could feel the oppression of it on her chest. She clutched her camera closer and leaned against the rail for support. In an attempt to appear nonchalant, she peered into the vast whiteness. But her heart was pounding, and she was sure every person on that ferry could hear. Could feel. The pounding.

She could almost see the shore. She wanted to jump up and down like a child, but knew that would be undignified and clutched the camera closer still. She made a whining sound with her nose and tried to play it off by snapping a photo of nothing.

Tried and failed. She knew everyone else knew she had lost her mind, and she was sure she saw them inch away. But the anticipation was oppressive. She tapped the toe of her boot against the rail. Perhaps the slight tapping would move the ferry a little faster. She shifted her weight and snapped a shot of the now visible shore.

Quickly she turned and walked rapidly to the front of the boat. She would be the first on shore.

beyond the bridge

She sat on the edge of the water and looked out. At the bridge. Beyond the bridge. She knew life would never be the same.

But would it be worse? Probably not. They say things work out for the best. They say when one door closes another opens. They say a lot of things. Who are They anyway. They clearly know nothing about anything. If They knew something, They would know that this wasn't for the best. They would know that doors are slamming shut and the rest are sealed.

She gazed again, beyond the bridge. Still, this would get better soon. And They are usually right, in the end. She looked to her left and noticed a small pink flower fighting for survival next to her bench.

She smiled and gazed again beyond the bridge. They say when one door closes... "A flower takes its place," she said aloud, to no one in particular. To the bridge.