Manhattan slips slowly away behind you, all postcard perfect and the sky is so blue in the April afternoon. You stare willfully at the old skyscrapers, the newer glass behemoths, the wide avenues that run without obstruction to the other end of the island. There's something familiar in the view, a feeling you know so well but haven't felt in so long. It's that you came here for a reason, that New York was once magical to you and held within it unending promise, if you would fight for it. I stared out at the Statue of Liberty with wind blown hair and tried to remember it in my gut: a time when I wasn't afraid to not walk the straight and wide.
He called from across the lands one morning, to tell you of writing endeavors and calling it Real. We could rent a fire watchtower in Wyoming, he said, spend a summer there and just write. I was knee deep in paper work at the time, wading through the piles of someone else's ambition, and his voice seemed not so much a promise or admonishment as simply a kind caress to reawaken that part of you that already knew what he was saying.
Make it real.
You can't live anyone's life
But your own.
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