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 ^{(it's beta!)}

High above the harbor, rising imperiously into the heavens is Anderson-Segal Apartments, a labyrinth of glass and steel. It would be a marvel of engineering, if its neon-saturated design were not duplicated by a thousand other buildings in this city. The difference between this building and the others, it is not easily found. The city does not unfold itself to just anyone.

I live here. On the top floor, I am looking out my window which provides a clear view of the harbor, with its tired barges scoffing at the optimistic passenger ferries. It would be too simple to call these ferries innocent and naïve. No, it is that they can only see the sunlight, glinting off the pristine buildings of the waterfront. The waterfront, it is but a façade that conceals the nature of the city, but that is all the pictures show. Regardless, the city does not treat well the optimistic.

How I got here, that is a story of its own. I too, came on a ferry. I remember dreams filled with pavement and people. I remember closing my eyes and seeing beautiful structures that sprouted from the ground, gazing down and smiling like kindly deities of the sky. That image has burned itself into my mind, distorting every building I see. Even now, staring out from atop one of these giants, I remember. The city does not let one forget.

There was a time that I hated that memory. The city wounds. I wanted to say that all these walls, they were just barriers. That streetlights could only blind. Oh, but that memory, that lingering first impression, I was powerless to despise. I could only despair. As I walked the streets, money disappearing like water in my hands, my love for the city continued to grow. I was a dog, spurned, but ever returning for more abuse.

Two weeks as a clerk at a grocery store, one handing out flyers, two months selling newspapers at a stand, three days of maintenance in a broken down apartment building, and countless weeks unemployed. The city had me running into invisible walls. I rarely had friends, rarely had a place to stay. Still, the streets were always paved with gold, and the next job would always make millions.

My struggle, it lasted two years. I count myself among the blessed of the blessed. My mind, when lost in thought, always seems to find those who are still trapped. To them, the walls are familiar, and the horizon is only a distant childhood memory. I dread their resentment. I dread their suspicious stares and bitter sarcasm. Their wisdom and experience, it looms over me now, whispering “UNWORTHY” in my ear. They call me a charitable man. I am only trying to rid myself of ghosts.