I tried to tell myself I hated the city, raising my hand high in a vain attempt to catch the attention of a taxi driver. Fall had brought a new breeze into the air, one that rustled through my platinum hair and danced through the lst desperate leaves. Clinging to their life support. Weren't we all.
I shifted my weight from one black stiletto to the other as yet another yellow car sped past. Tried to tell myself I hated the city, but then I doubted the queen of England could ever convince herself she hated London. And I was the queen, wasnt I?
At long last I managed to flag one down; it eased over just enough for me to slide into the back. The driver asked our destination. I told him he could just drop me at Central Park. Anywhere from there was in walking distance. What I needed was a cigarette. And a lengthy session in my makeshift studio. The former would have to do for now. I didnt bother asking for permission.
The smoke tasted wonderful, warm and inviting as it twisted its way down my throat, teasing my lungs with it's lethal caress. The drive from Chelsea to Fifth Avenue really wasnt that bad, but in all my impatience, it seemed to take forever.
I guess that's the thing about passion. It consumes in a way that's almost deadly, pushing everything else aside. I'd never been passionate about much. Growing up with everything given to me had turned me both bitter and desperate. Up until high school, I'd been the epitome of perfection, the angel child who never did anything but what she was told.
That was then. Now, music was my everything. Sure, I still went out. I still smiled when I was supposed to, nodded and gossiped. Donned all the right clothes.Talked to people who knew nothing about me, because that was expected. I was still the queen of Lower Chelsea, and I was still working my way up to the whole goddamn city.
I was still alone in the world.
The driver startled me with an abrupt slamming of the breaks. New York didnt look half as beautiful in the day light. Maybe that was my problem. If it were up to me, I'd have every last little light in the city all for myself. And somehow I'd take those lights and respark my life.
"This is your stop," he told me in that monotone voice of all taxi drivers. I handed him some cash, thanked him, and climbed out into the cool day before me. All aroudn me, people were passing by, going on with their own lives. Some of them had just woken up. Some hadnt slept in days. Some of them were living a lie, and others were searching for the truth. Some of them just wanted a little love. Some loved someone else way too fucking much.
I reached up to push back a stray strand of white blonde hair, running my fingers all the way through to the ultraviolet tips. My cigarette had reached the filter; I let it tumble into the gutter where the sidewalk met the pavement. The forgotten space between.
[The Queen of Lower Chelsea- The Gaslight Anthem]