Returning to New York City after an absence is forever an anodyne, is forever a slight jolt in your chest and a reflexive smile you cannot conceal. We rolled into Inwood in late afternoon sunlight, a thousand rolling hills of Connecticut behind us and a trunk full of deep breaths. She said I cannot wait to be home, and when we rolled across the cobble stoned streets of the West Village she squealed that this is what she meant. I left her and made my way east, scouring the streets for elusive parking spots and finding one, like magic, just a block from my stoop.
The next day is cold, wet, quiet. I make my way to the river and run further, faster, than I have in ages, staring at toppling buildings, silent bridges, half a millenium of dreams compounded, shredded, repaved, remodeled, built anew. Fail, fail again, fail better. The new year brings nothing you did not already carry with you, do not forget that. It only gives you the opportunity to see it differently, to fold it at other angles, to present another draft.
This is not a failure this is not a lack of miracle. The essence of life is to become who you already are, and recognize it.
Is to learn how to tell the story so it sounds like you had imagined it in your dreams.
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