Every once and a while my boss sends me across Manhattan picking up equipment for a production or shoot. I’m always sweating. Probably because I wear all black, but that’s a personal choice, so I can’t really complain.

But I trek across Manhattan and end up in parts of the city I would never expect. Strangely enough, I’ve never been to the west side of Midtown, just like I’d never been to the Brooklyn Bridge until about a month and a half ago. I don’t really get out much; I’m just a different dude.

And being different is one of the greatest gifts I’ve been given, whether from my multiple moves and inconsistent childhood settings or from my interracial, immigrant parents. But it’s taxing, and a highly unique experience. My whole life, I never saw one man or woman that was successful that looked like me, grew up like me, or had my background. My role models could only be within my family, but even my father, for instance, would and will never be able to understand what growing up with a perverted social and political identity and no hometown would be like.

At sixteen I experienced being inebriated for the first time in the Hague out in Holland. Olivier, my day one, brought me along slowly, knowing I was real reluctant to do anything too crazy.

I told you I’ve been a pussy for a long, long time.

The next morning I didn’t understand why I was so thirsty, so I drank a liter of milk when I woke up. Stupid shit, but that’s what you do when you have no clue what you’re doing.

And I? I have no clue where I’m going. It doesn’t really make much sense, does it? I mean, what exactly is this that I’m doing? A written album for Action Bronson? If I told my father that’s what I spent my time on, that’s what I daydream about, and that’s what I’m obsessed with at the moment, he’d probably disown me, take my dog, and tell all his coworkers that I’m at Goldman Sachs.

Just to save face.

But right now I’m as confused as I was waking up with my first hangover. None of this shit makes any sense, but I do it because that’s what needs to be done. I’m already slowly going crazy, at least this is postponing the slide a bit.

I’m just trying to make my own out here in a way that hasn’t been done before. It’s difficult not to doubt yourself, especially when your ideas require convincing those around you, simply because they don’t make much sense to them. You do what you have to do, I guess, but it’s taken me three years to make this step. Doing what you have to do just ain’t that simple.

Because, hell, everyone’s a goddamn critic.

I awake, like every morning, in a haze and extremely full from the nightly feasts I have. Fried chicken, cookies, candies, the sort of “food” that my mother never put on my plate as a child, I seem to inhale as an adult. I glance at my phone, resting face down beside my pillow, Instagram notifications lighting up the screen, enough to scroll through for a while. When you’ve decided your skills and passions mold best in the realm of social media branding and digital content creation, your phone is constantly revealing new likes and comments. I used to get a little buzz—a rush of sorts—seeing my phone blow up from likes, but, after roughly a day of running multiple social media accounts, it became utterly apparent that all the likes in the world would never make me happy.

Like most people, dreams I have the night before I usually forget. Yet I have been having a particular dream which repeats itself, and I can do nothing to forget this dream. The subject is the same, yet the stories, situations, and settings are always a bit different. I would also, normally, disclose the subject and delve into great depths as to how it affects me, yet, in this case, I am not currently comfortable even discussing the topic with myself. It is merely a “thing” that I ignore and push out of my mind. It does, however, concern people in and out of my life, relationships which have ended recently and years ago, and a guilt my self-conscious has built from my numerous choices to cut those people off.

What do you call a nightmare that does not frighten? That doesn’t scare the hell out of you, that isn’t straight out of a horror movie, and that won’t wake you in the middle of the night in a sweat of terror? Is it still a nightmare? I’d say no, as I venture you might, but what of the dream that simply depresses? The dream that makes the world seem an impossibly big place, and that can make daily activities and burdens overpowering? Is that not a nightmare? Is it not a dream that, like a nightmare, you only seek to avoid upon placing your head down on the pillow? This sort of dream, I found, truly does exist. I also discovered solace in the fact that I am not alone. Upon awaking, distressed from another morning of ruminating on a moment that never occurred other than inside my head, I did a quick google search. What I learnt was nothing shocking, rather seemed to be intuition. In essence, thoughts we do not deal with during the day, are then “dreamt out” during the night through all sorts of metaphors. The brain does this to deal with the emotions (those I refuse to deal with during the day) so that the next day can be one with less concern on those troubling topics. However, when we dream, during REM, hormones indicative of stress, such as adrenaline, are released in more amounts than usual. You feel exhausted the next morning, but not physically, simply emotionally. Then you’re stuck. Stuck trying to understand why you no longer feel good, and how it’s possible to get a great night’s sleep and yet feel relatively worthless.

With this knowledge, I berate myself for sulking as I come to grips with the fact that it was just a dream. I finally get out of bed and begin to play music on my stereo to slowly wake myself up. Meek Mill and Future. There are few things like beginning a morning with that sort of “hard” hip-hop. It gets you going and ready for the day, but it’s just an escape, I’ve learnt. For every bar they spit about getting twisted, about needing nothing, about being a king, you, too, are convinced, if only a bit. As I fold my work clothes for the day and put on my outfit for the gym and the yellow morning light spills into my tiny room, I stand bobbing my head, forcing myself into the mindset. Finally, with all things ready, my black on black uniform folded and neatly prepared in my backpack, I head out.

With my camera in hand, Future’s new album blasting on repeat in my earbuds, I wander down Delancey as it turns to Kenmare. I stop every minute or so to take pictures of notable people. I have realized that the people of New York are the only things I truly wish to capture nowadays. All those who climb higher and higher to take shots of the skyscraper are wonderful, but I do not dwell on what’s above, I keep my head down and at eye-level. That is my world. I find sufficient difficulties understanding this world, let alone dreaming of what’s above and beyond. I feel rewarded as there appear to be so many notable people on the streets. As I make my way into Nolita and Soho, the people move less and are easy to capture. A white car on the cobblestones of Crosby Street grabs my attention. A black man is leaning out of the driver’s seat, tattoo on his arm. I zoom in with my Nikon, right hand on the trigger, the lens gently resting on my left palm, and realize it says “Family”. There, on Crosby Street, I begin reminiscing on Chicago and my family there. Lately they seem not to understand me more than usual. I was there a week or so ago for two days and, in that time, somehow managed to make my two-years-superior sister cry. My talents are numerous. I take a shot of a guy’s shoes as I pass him, but I still have my mind only on Chicago. Recently I have gotten into shouting matches with my family over their lack of understanding and what appears to me to be an incessant prying. In this moment, I realize that they simply care much for my well-being and yearn to know about my life. They get most of the news in these blogs. I then realize that I would be more well-adjusted to their questions if I knew myself, and knew where I was going. I’m crossing onto Houston Street now, the gleaming Adidas store on the intersection with Broadway greeting me.

But, in reality, I still don’t fully grasp my own identity. I still feel as if I would benefit greatly from more time used to study myself, the complex subject which seems to have endless lectures.

But we don’t always get what we want.

On Broadway I pass a particular Starbucks which I do not like. I put down my camera for the moment. A bad vibe can infect everything you create. A subliminal thing, you know? Now on Mercer Street, sweat on my brow, music still pumping, I see a beautiful, shaggy dog. He is tied up outside a cheap deli across the street from the NYU gym. I zoom my lens to the point where, at most, I am but one foot in front of him. But the dog does not notice anything. His ears and eyes remain transfixed on his owner inside. The look in his eyes seems slightly out of worry, but the world could end and he’d remain there: tied up to the metal pole, staring inside the bodega waiting for his owner. That’s fucking loyalty.

I make my way to the gym and do what I know best, which is to sweat and push and pull all of these thoughts out of mind. For an hour, you are fully engrossed in doing the most barbaric of movements. But self-improvement always tastes good and takes me out of the haze in which I awoke. I stroll out now, this time with a bit of a swagger, the dream which haunts me no longer my concern and venture down West Third towards my office on Sullivan. There I work as a Production Assistant. Occasionally, I am struck with the magnitude of this job (in terms of what it means in my budding career) and my love for it. I remember I came for finance, to work in Goldman Sachs, and to drown all my tears in hundred dollar bills. Now, I run around Midtown lugging heavy production equipment and am learning how to hold the boom. I just need a foot in the industry, I tell myself.

Before I make it into the office, I find a bench by the NYU Law building on the corner of Sullivan and smoke a cigarette. Still unfiltered. I finally am able to relax, body fatigued yet invigorated. I lean back and watch the people go by me. A couple of days ago I saw Anderson Cooper stroll by, tight shirt and backpack on. Hair as white as snow. We made some eye contact and I forgot all about it until this moment.

Today no one really notable passes by, as is expected. I’m done with the cigarette, though. It’s 10 AM, right on time. From experience, I know that once you enter the office, the morning, and the day vanishes. Thus as I walk down to Sullivan, I take it all in for a second, and the sun hits my face. I’m a bit blinded but there are few things like morning sunshine in the summer.

But the morning is over and it’s all written.

All still unfiltered.