The city was screaming at him again. But he did not care.
Not anymore.
For a brief moment, he appreciated how much he had improved from his teens. He used to be sensitive to sounds, and this city did nothing to assuage his weakness. From dawn to dusk, the city never relented in its production of kinetic noise, and all he could do was adapt. Go with the flow. Take it easy.
So he did. And he was rewarded.
His therapist had told him, he was a fighter. And he most definitely was. He had a unique story to tell the world, and his trauma didn’t break him but created who he was today, a pillar of strength for his family and a role model for kids who wanted to be worth more than their traumas and brokenness.
And he didn’t need God or anyone to tell him what to do. He knew what to do innately, his intuition and acquired wisdom leading him towards his future.
He had broken his faith when he was eleven, and he never believed in God since then.
Such a shame… you good looking boy… such a shame…
Those words echoed in his head, and he almost winced.
Almost.
He put down his skateboard and started to ride it. It was like surfing, only instead of the waves, he was coasting the streets.
He was exploring the concrete jungle, as trite and overused as that term was.
But NYC was the opposite of cliched. It was diverse and unique and colorful.
It demanded to be noticed.
Just like him.
So he rode the streets, daring anyone and everyone to stare at him, for he was the god of the city.
