Stories heard from the otherside

I've been to New York City a number of times in my life, it's the muse to my life.  The lights, motion, history gets all wrapped up together next to a hot dog vendor and $1 pizza slices. But to start there would do injustice to what actually happened, a culmination of events that was perpetually pushing me forward towards that end. No different than a snowball rolling down a hill or a volcano building up pressure. Much like the mild mannered Clark Kent who reveals himself to be the powerful Superman, I probably would have fallen into that category except my superpower was drinking way too much and passing out. I think quite a few people can corroborate that and likely many of ya'll reading I probably passed out on your couch. That was much the norm for me when it came to drinking, probably not all that different from most young people but I'd say I had little less regard on my livelihood during those times. Also for much of that time I felt like writing would just pour ...

or does it have to be? Am I the product of some destiny, perpetual machine that like a ticking clock only moves in one direction regardless of where we may slide the hands. The hands of time are they just a mere show, just some aesthetic face ticking away. All the while unabashingly gears grinding digging more and more into each other wearing away flecks of metal with every hour.  Am I just hands facing outward appearing to control the time, no wiser to the previous minute. Anybody reading my face can read the time and likely take it as fact, only until you read your own watch and see something much different.