(continuted from Stinky Subways and Manhattan Musings Part 1)
From the ages of sixteen to nineteen, I had a recurring dream about New York City. It is funny how our brains can conjure up stories and scenes of places we have never visited based on micro amounts of information fed to us through movies and images over the years.
In the dream, I would walk the streets of the city in search of Central Park. I would walk past the Washington Square arch and stare up at the intricacies embedded into the marble, and I would swipe my metro card to travel below street level on the rickety, packed subway.
When I thought I was getting close, my subconscious would develop distractions and side quests I needed to complete in order to reach my final destination. A snowstorm would find me huddling underneath a brownstone porch in The Village. Feeling as parched as the Sahara Dessert once, my body told me that I had to find water before I could continue, but I was refused service.
I would ask everyone that looked friendly, “Excuse me, do you know the way to Central Park?”
And each time I would be given the wrong directions.
This occurred during a period of my life where I felt deeply depressed and dissatisfied with how I was spending my time. I was aching with every fibre of my being to get on a plane and leave Australia, and my psychologist knew it.
“Perhaps Central Park is a metaphor for your happiness,” She said to me over one therapy session in 2013.
On the only sunny day in the first week of May this year, I did eventually make it to Central Park. And whilst I don’t necessarily confirm or deny that my dream was some kind of warning about my inner turmoil, visiting the park was a very spiritual and fulfilling experience.
Fruit platter in one hand, kombucha in the other, I walked amongst the cherry blossoms with the faint sound of jazz wafting through the late spring air. It was perfect.