Movement

Monday morning, everything is already happening and didn’t stop to wait while you were away. The west village is a postcard, as always, but the white washed loafered conversation grates along your empty bank account, your tumbles in class. You long for the blend you know is here, you long for mosaic and the calm that only the madness of this city can provide. Everything that tore at my heart suddenly feels far away, I forget I ever cried. 

That’s the thing, you know. No matter how many tears we cry, no matter how impossible it feels to ever smile again, you put one foot in front of the other, eventually you smile again, eventually you make your way home.