Tricking is a sport but it is just as much so an artform in its own right. Stumbling through bustling Manhattan in the Village on a chilly Monday afternoon, hungry, discontent, and out of place, there was only one thing for me to do as Washington Square Park came into view along my stroll. And no, it wasn't compose an extremely wordy sentence. My first impulse was to trick. I ran. Fast. I took of my polo, kicked off my shoes and socks, and threw my body into different combinations of corks, ganers, double legs, and an array of other kicks and flips. A band was playing nearby. A very inspirational song I remember, and as I was bobbing my head in testimony to the beauty and hope of that song, I tricked in the dirt covered, newly growing, early Spring stubbles of grass. I ran up the closest tree and sored through the air as I flipped off. I swear it felt as if I was going in slow motion. I felt like I was truly expressing myself where words could not. Before I knew it, it was dark and I had built up quite a crowd. When I became aware of this, I collected my things, flipped over the rail (just to show off a bit) and walked into the lights of the city and disappeared. I was no longer discontent or out of place. But my hunger did return.