As I write this, I’m gazing out a 22nd story window at the New York City skyline, ablaze with twinkling lights in the midst of a dark, clear night. This city never ceases to amaze me, but I typically feel like an outsider peering in when I visit. There is something magnetic yet incomprehensible about the never-ending energy pulsing through the veins of New York. How is it that 8.5 million people (18 million in the metro area) all find themselves living within the span of a few tiny islands? What draws tens of thousands of new residents every year to this eat-or-be-eaten environment?

In the South, there is a stereotype of the typical New Yorker: a harsh, unfriendly Yankee trapped in a perpetual state of stress, rushing from one city block to the next. As with all stereotypes, there is some fundamental truth we are missing when we buy into this blanket categorization. The hurried gait, the diverted gazes, the seething masses of bodies—they are all products of the peculiar reality of New York City. In this hectic metropolis, you may unknowingly cross paths with a future president or mass murderer. Every day, thousands of faces will flash by which you will most likely never see again. The volume of people is overwhelming enough to make anyone develop a hardened, stubborn exterior. But maybe, paradoxically, the transience of this city’s population is what keeps so many people here, striving to find a niche in this concrete jungle.

Ask a non-American what they think of when they hear about the United States, and one of the first things that they will typically mention is New York: the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, Times Square—the symbols of a new world full of excitement and activity. My mind conjured up these same images before I ever visited New York. When I was finally able to lay eyes on the city, feelings of adrenaline and empowerment swept through me. As an outsider, there is a sort of “look, but don’t touch” aura about NYC which makes it even more irresistible. I want to feel a sense of belonging, as all humans do. Part of me believes that if I can gain that sense of belonging in this massive vortex of human activity, I will reach the pinnacle of Maslow’s hierarchy and forever be content.

Is that contentment for which we are all searching present in a greater amount in the Big Apple, and consequently the reason for this place’s prominence? Or is the twinkling restlessness of New York like Gatsby’s green light—a mirage of fulfillment for the unassuming risk taker? Perhaps we will never know. But the dreams of success, fame, fortune and fulfillment keep people pouring through subway stations, filing down streets, and packing into shoebox apartments. Here in New York, there is an opportunity to be a part of something worlds bigger than oneself. There is an independent spirit that simultaneously attracts and repels. There is beauty in the struggle to stand up and stand out, and no city embodies this better than New York.

New York is not my home. Perhaps one day, it will be. But for now I peer through the windows at a restless city always striving for more, and I feel the power of its magnetism.