I've taken steps, but my feet find no ground to land upon. The city is not yet real.

Through the smudged window of this cafe on 25th and 7th (what do these numbers mean), I make note of the street signs, relaying the ocular photograph of this intersection into my memory. 25th and 7th. No more details. Succinct and concise; an address in a single, swift delivery. Am I becoming a grid walker? Or am I just imitating them as I pass through?

I look out the window. I do not feel grounded. New York City has yet to pull me close. This is my new home: a series of buildings, cars, and people; spawning in and out of my periphery, abiding by no pattern at all. It's not that I don't feel belonging (though I do not), but that I don't seem to find affection for this place. These buildings do not greet me. These streets are harsh and hostile. I do not love my corner pizzeria in the way I loved the Somerville Thai Hut, which served the worst pad thai I have ever tasted in my life. I do not love my corner pizzeria at all.

I am foolish to expect a home after living in a city for six months, but that's also just who I am: somebody who needs, who looks for the anchor. Someone, searching for something that can hold me tighter than I could it. Something. Somebody. I came to this city to find this, and I still have not. But, of course, it has only been six months.

So many others speak about how New York City is the greatest city in the world, that they never want to leave, that life here is all they ever want for the rest of their time. And to some extent, I agree: who could deny that this is the greatest city in the world? In between rapid steps to my next destination, I look up, and am in awe at the skyline. Nothing compares. Still, I feel nothing.

A dissatisfied person, always searching for more, will never be satisfied. Look past what is in front of you, and you will never find it.

I seek the anchor.