The year after I graduated from high school, I lived with my parents in the small town where I grew up but which I was beginning to realize I had outgrown. Blessed with a job where I could choose my own hours, I twisted my days and nights and went to sleep at dawn.
Sometime around two a.m., I would go out walking. I walked from our residential neighborhood, close to the edges of the town; I could walk for hours, music in my ears and frosted breath escaping my body. Sometimes I would hear the sounds of People in the outskirts, but for the most part, the world was mine.
I am sure my mother is glad she doesn't know.
When I finally tired, I would return home and crawl in through my bedroom window. Back into the quiet room, the only light on on the whole street, and I never slept as well as after such a night.
The other day, I rediscovered old pictures that I'd taken of New York when I lived here many years ago, and I remembered the nights when I'd taken them. When I walked around the city for hours, without eating or resting or talking to anyone. I looked at the city through that viewfinder, and I tried to breathe in every light, every building, every little piece that made this city the home of my dreams.
I looked at those pictures again, and I felt exactly the same. My heart wants nothing but to reclaim my home.
I think it's time to start walking again.
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