Life As We Know It

Here I am. Alone in the middle of New York with no money, eating spam and crackers with a palstic spoon. I used the last fork this morning for the last can of off brand meatballs. A microwave would have been excellent at that moment but you do what you have to do. I keep asking myself why. Why did I come here? Why did I even go so far as to think it might be worth it? I have no idea; all I know is that in the morning I must go looking for a job.
There is a cat outside my apartment window. A huge orange tabby cat. It looks as ragged as I feel. If I had enough food, I would share. On the other hand, I think I will share, at least I will have another mammal to converse at, and what is one less spoon full of spam for myself going to hurt? Someone is playing music downstairs. Hot swing music that makes you want to get on your feet and spin around the room as if no one were looking. I love that sound.
My mother used to play that music when I was a child. She would take me in her arms and spin me around the room. She would tell me "Annie, listen to that sound. Let it soak into your evey pore. Breath it in until you know that no matter where your feet take you, they will always dance". When I was small, I never understood those words, I just wanted her to keep holding my hand and spinning me around the room. Now I realize that it wasn't about the music at all. Those words now ring in my ears every day as I wonder around this lonely city filled with people.
It started out simple. I was just going to graduate from high school, get a great scholarship, move to New York and become a famous artist. How was I supposed to know that it was not going to be so simple. Art has always been my life. I can remember getting paint all over the walls of my house when I was young. I also remember the pain I felt all over my body when my mother walked in on my masterpiece. She then realized that she should get me an easel like I had been asking for all along.
My mother has been a supporter of my artistic abilaties since I can remember; however when I told her that I was going to pursue a career in New York doing just that, she was less than thrilled. Actually, she dismissed it completely. From that day until the day I left for New York, all my mother talked about was getting an education closer to home. "Why do you have to go to New York? Isn't there somewhere closer to home where you could be satisfied", and the major complaint, "Why do you have this outlandish fixation with art?". The latter would forever drive me to the point of no return. Through all of the arguments over my choice of life, the day I left my mother gave me a Bible, a kiss, and a paint brush. It seems so long ago that I left the tiny town of Telluride Idaho, population 299, but it has only been five months.
As I climb into bed I realize that I have no purpose in this place. No one even knows my name, well except for the foreman who has had to come to my apartment four time since I have moved in to fix the hot water in my shower. Which reminds me, I have to call and harass him again in the morning. As I was saying, I keep trying to answer my mother's question of why every minute that I breath, and to be honest, I haven't the fainest idea anymore. Maybe it's the excitment of a big city or maybe it's just the want of something grander in my life; however, I know that it's NOT the persistent car horns and all night police sirens that go off directly outside of my window. I keep having this feeling that at 2 a.m. every morning, someone could rob a bank in Manhattan and there would be no law inforcement to stop them due to the party they are having right below my apartment.