New York. Manhattan. Friday. Rush hour.

Living in New York City is living in a jungle of people and culture -- all of different ages, races, genders, sexualities, and all with different names. Riding on the Manhattan-bound Subway at rush hour can consist of a lot of exposure to the melting pot that is New York City. Riding the MTA, I find myself surrounded by an array of all different people, oftentimes too close for comfort to a stranger. However, every time I do, my attention is drawn to something peculiar about these people. Their hands. Particularly their left hands; the ring finger. Curiosity must be the driving force for this observation -- maybe my mind is just curious to know even the slightest personal detail about all these strangers I stand too close to. Often times I have observed that the hands of those that belong to older generations are the ones to have rings on their fingers -- perhaps those born from the age of baby boomers, the current retirees. However, ever so often I find myself subconsciously smiling at the young woman that carries such a jewel on her finger, as commitment is a dying breed among the rising generations. New York is not the place of commitment but rather the place of exploration and wild adventures, and unfortunately to a lot of things becoming confused in the chaos. There is so much life, diversity, and energy that lines become blurred between people, and it becomes hard to judge the people you ride the subway with every day because there are simply too close and crowded to be judged.