A City of Life

Weekly wisdom to level up your creative life in 3 minutes, for free.

A SHORT STORY

Anastasiia and I spent the past week in Varanasi, known as India’s holiest city.

As we wandered its maze of ancient alleyways and riverfront ghats, I kept saying to her: this place feels like an embodied ritual. Everything—from the morning and evening worship of the Ganges, to the countless shrines tucked into stone walls and street corners—reminds you that the divine is not a concept here. It’s in the air. It’s lived.

One evening, sitting with our new friend Anupam, he told us something I can’t stop thinking about:

Simply put: God is everywhere.

So, as we walked through the city—its ancient stones humming with centuries of devotion—I found myself wondering:

If Varanasi is always calling you to remember the divine within and around you through these gods…

What gods do I worship, consciously or unconsciously, in New York?

In Varanasi, the rituals are explicit. Offerings of flame and water. Chants that rise with the sun. Daily reminders to bow.

But in New York, the rituals are subtler. A morning scroll through headlines. A sprint to the next meeting. The flickering glow of screens late into the night.

What altars am I kneeling before, without realizing it?

Because maybe the question isn’t whether we worship… but what we worship.
And whether our daily devotions—conscious or not—bring us closer to who we truly are.

What are you worshipping, with your time, your attention, and your energy this week?

A POEM

“June” by Alex Dimitrov

There will never be more of summer
than there is now. Walking alone
through Union Square I am carrying flowers
and the first rosé to a party where I’m expected.
It’s Sunday and the trains run on time
but today death feels so far, it’s impossible
to go underground. I would like to say
something to everyone I see (an entire
city) but I’m unsure what it is yet.
Each time I leave my apartment
there’s at least one person crying,
reading, or shouting after a stranger
anywhere along my commute.
It’s possible to be happy alone,
I say out loud and to no one
so it’s obvious, and now here
in the middle of this poem.
Rarely have I felt more charmed
than on Ninth Street, watching a woman
stop in the middle of the sidewalk
to pull up her hair like it’s
an emergency—and it is.
People do know they’re alive.
They hardly know what to do with themselves.
I almost want to invite her with me
but I’ve passed and yes it’d be crazy
like trying to be a poet, trying to be anyone here.
How do you continue to love New York,
my friend who left for California asks me.
It’s awful in the summer and winter,
and spring and fall last maybe two weeks.
This is true. It’s all true, of course,
like my preference for difficult men
which I had until recently
because at last, for one summer
the only difficulty I’m willing to imagine
is walking through this first humid day
with my hands full, not at all peaceful
but entirely possible and real.

Grateful,

Michael