The night was long, and without much sleep. Fight or Flight, my body was ready, eyes alert and adrenaline tickling the nerves. I awoke and dressed in a haze. On the subway, the boy in my book lost his mother. I thought if I can't even handle a small set-back, how would I ever survive that? I spent the morning with a baby in my arms, and as she looked at me, smiled, and fell asleep, I thought it was about time I pulled myself together. In a sun-drenched apartment in Hell's Kitchen, there it was: perspective.
In the storm of questions, of angst and impossible darknesses, suddenly I saw the only question that mattered. If I want to stay in New York, I have to find a solution, work it out. If I want to stay in New York, I cannot lie down and whither to dust, saying what else was I supposed to do? If I want to stay in New York I have to fight.
And I do.
Inside me, the girl who never takes the fight, who always brushes her shoulder and walks away, walks on, says goodbye, she turned silent. I haven't the blueprints for any other girl; all I have is this beating heart that says this city is all it knows how to love. I will it to carry me, until she is here.
And New York,
honey,
please be worth the fight.
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