A/N: Weird style from me, but sometimes I've really gotta let loose and be all angsty--most of the time, I'm not like this, I swear. Please review, I wanna know if this works or not. Brutality! GAH!!!! Even friggin' typos; any way I can make this better. And tell me if you agree or not. :D Oh, and BTW, thanks to my amazing (and timely) editor RealmofTerra, and thanks totyna01, who spotted some typos for meh.

It’s Never Dark in New York City

The sky was a bright blue earlier today; now it’s much paler, as if it were a shirt, faded in the wash. Wisps of cloud are scattered here and there, most are cotton candy pink from the setting sun, but there are looming ones, imposing ones, the pink-black smog sky-distorting New York City clouds.

It’s Christmas Eve. Why do I feel so empty?

No, I didn’t mean that. Or maybe I did. It just came out of my pen, and I think it might be true.

I want to watch the sun set.

I came out here to write in my notebook, to sit and absorb the peace, the outside. I haven’t written outside in a while now.

A group of guys walk by. They shoot me a look. Their loud, raucous voices carry over.

You can’t watch a sunset from First Avenue. The buildings rise up and shut you off from the sky; from the light and heat and fiery goodness and life-affirming passion; who needs the sun when you’ve got tanning beds?

Nobody writes in a notebook anymore. Nobody writes at all. And it’s all word processors and video games and gossiping on the phone, insulting people behind their backs instead of to their faces, because they’re nothing but cowards who want to feel big.

My god, I’m turning into one of them.

So, I came out here to put everything right. Just me, just the world.

I sit in the pile of crisp autumn leaves instead of on a bench. These leaves fell off a tree, a tree that had to shut itself off from the world and go cold and dead to survive the harsh winter. I don’t care what people say. Sure, I’m just a stupid little girl who wants to mess up the raking that the maintenance guys did.

I don’t know what I want to write. My story’s just not coming to me, and I won’t force it.

I sit; I wait for something to come.

Cars go by, whooshing, honking; isn’t it ever quiet?

Peoples’ voices, impossibly loud, just to bother me.

Pigeons cheep. Some natural sound, at last. Except it doesn’t stop. The cheeping goes on and on, incessantly, drilling a hole in my head. Can’t you shut the fuck up, you goddamn bird? I’m not going to feed you.

My foot’s asleep. Leaves rustle as I stand and walk around.

I jump and fish my ringing cell phone out of my bag. Yes mom. Yes. I’m outside. Walking around. Can I go? I’m writing. No, not while I walk. Okay, fine, I’m thinking, sure, whatever. Are you done? Can I go? No, I don’t know when I’ll be home. Can I go? She doesn’t get it. Nobody gets it. If somebody understood, I could talk to them; but nobody does. My notebook is here for me, absorbing all my thoughts in blue ballpoint. I need to be alone.

The sky is darker, still with a faded, not-all-there look. Streetlamps glare. I can’t think with that light in my eyes, can’t remember the last time I was in the dark. Soon the sky will be black, and the moon will shine silver and the stars will dot the heavens. And it fwill all be drowned out by streetlamps. Who needs the moon when you’ve got skyscraper lights?

And birds will caw and caw, waiting to be fed by someone, forgetting how to find their own food, so they can starve in the winter when the little old ladies stop bringing them breadcrumbs. Cars will roam the streets, blasting out one person’s music for the world to hear. Happy, smiling families will sit down for Christmas dinner and won’t pay any attention to the stars that they can’t see because everyone needs streetlamps.

People need light, cars, music, food, iPods, wide-screen TVs, the newest X-Box game, a holiday to make things all better that doesn’t mean anything anymore because Hallmark needs its business. People need to feel like their miserable half-lives have a purpose, like they’re doing something in the world. They need Santa Claus. They need those things, need them so badly that they couldn’t go a moment without them. And people like me have to suffer for it.

My cell phone. Again. Just as these words start flowing, just as I was finally starting to realize why I felt so empty on Christmas.

“What are you doing?” she asks, as if I hadn’t told her the first time. She thinks its some little game I play; she never thought for a second that it was serious. “You’re writing in the dark? Come home, you can’t—“

Shows what you know.

I’ve heard enough. I hang up. I know what she’ll say when I get home, that I was being ‘very rude.’

Fuck you. You don’t get it. You don’t get any of it.

It’s never dark in New York City.

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A/N: Yay for angsty stories. I swear, this is exactly what was in my notebook... I was outside, my mom actually called, yadah yadah. I feel special now so revieeeeeeeewwwwwwww!!!!!!!!!!