I am not a poet but a poem

this quote by Jaques Lacan.

The snow today, promised, finally came.

I watched it fall from my spot behind the bar. The restaurant, warm and cozy, with a bustle of business, but not too much. No one bothered me because they all had tables to wait. No conversations because my friends weren't working today. It was okay. I stood in the corner of the bar, watching the snow fall through the window and writing. Snowfall, rainfall, sleetfall-- New York sky crap that couldn't decide what it was. Occasionally an order for a margarita.

I talked with these two art students from Pratt. They were here for a term from London. They told me how hard it was going to be to go back to England. "Why?" I asked, I didn't know.
"It's so hard to live in London," they said, surprise to me, I always thought it was New York that was hard to live in. "No, no. It's hard to get around there, it's ugly, it's not safe."
"You get the feeling that it isn't made for you," the guy said.
"So," I said, "You're saying New York is a more humanitarian city."

"Yes, Yes it is," they said, "and the people are so nice."
--

So take a look again. Seen from another perspective, what you thought about a thing-- like New York being unpleasant and hard (especially in this cold, harsh winter,)-- can be something not. Something new. Something wonderful.
--

That night, people came out of the cold into the candle lit and glowy restaurant, brushing snow and unwinding scarves, beatific smiles on their faces.
--

The shift settled down into drunken jokes and mild flirtations before we closed the door on last call. I made more money than expected, but not great money, and cleaned up the bar. I had to wait a long time for the rest of the staff to finish their duties, so I could close the register and go home, but it was kind of a nice night, I didn't want to get stressed over nothing, over a delay of a few minutes where I could sit with my feet up on a stool, a hoegaarden on the bar infront of me, writing a few lines in my journal.

The night was over and I waited. And then I bundled up and wandered out into the street.

Truly, Brooklyn was beautiful. Cold, yes, but gentle. Snow always does that. And the dark was this not-dark, reflecting back all the lights from the city in this gauzy gray. Cement streets softly folded in white.

I walked home-- a short walk-- just drinking it all in. Middle of the night, and still safe alone. I remembered when that wasn't the case. I don't want to be dissatisfied with my life. I could be so unhappy right now. No money, no boyfriend, crappy job, debt, cold, no career, no connections. I'm starting all over again. It's hard.

But I want to be here now. This is my life I'm talking about, and this is vitally important. Mine is to me. Yours is to you. Maybe even we all are to eachother.

The more I am focused on what isn't there in my life, on what I lack, the less I will be able to see what is there. The beauty. The poem. The chance met encounter, the chance spoken phrase that sets the whole shebang into momentary, thrilling synchronicity.

Just for a moment, because I think that's all we can really handle. Because we have to lock the door and put on the gloves and buy cat food, and duck our heads away from the crazy guy who knows us so we don't want him to notice us, and walk home through the snow so we don't slip and fall.

And yet... We can still catch that moment of wonder in motion around us, like a reminder maybe, that, yeah, life IS good.