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On Saturday morning I wake up to rain. Except it isn’t real rain. It’s the rain sounds playlist I’ve put on to drown out my cat scratching to get out of the door. The window reveals a little sun. I want to pretend it is earlier than it is. My voice is scratchy from too much karaoke the night before. But I’m wide awake. I google the distance from my apartment to a store I need to go to in Soho. I decide to run over the Manhattan bridge despite having slept only six hours.
As I make my way down Flatbush Avenue, Conor Oberst’s wobbly voice replaces the rain through my headphones. In a few hours, I’ll see Bright Eyes for the second time this year. I take a wrong turn and end up next to a fence beside the bridge’s bike path. I can’t get through. Trash under my feet. For a moment, I panic, not sure why I thought it’d be safe to keep going, believing there would be an opening or a short cut. I’m worried something sharp will cut through my shoe. My nerves are edgy as I finally hit the bridge. The Q rumbles past and shakes the ground under my feet. I imagine for a moment the bridge collapsing, taking everything with it, and falling forever into the river. Then me, the train, and all the buses swimming through the garbage until we meet again on the riverbed.
one of many views from the Manhattan Bridge
Three nights in a row this week, I wake up and I’m unable to fall back to sleep.
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