You arrive in New York City before dawn, the first oranges and pinks of sunrise just starting to climb over the horizon. You feel different, your steps lighter, your back straighter, but everything else is the same: the quick steps down the subway stairs to make a closing door, the quick reparte with the barista who tries to get you to move to Texas with him, the breathless way Grand Central Station feels in the early afternoon, like the ceiling is as high as the sky. She shows you around the apartment and you think, anywhere can be home if you bring your own sunshine, and you have your bags full.
New York envelopes you not like a new lover but like an old friend, you sink into its arms like you had been holding your breath the whole time you were away. It's a gift every time to find that you belong as much now as the first night you set foot on Manhattan shores. You do not take it for granted.
All day you get no work done, no writing done. You try to hold yourself accountable to the degrees that feel inspiring, but less to the ones that feel too much a part of the real world. These are the dream days now, this is the dream life, what use have I for tangible deadlines. I sat in a second floor window on Union Square and looked at the foliage remain, at the Empire State building exactly where I left it, exactly where I found it.
These are the dream days,
now.
I won't forget that.
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