It seems I live in an eternal state of wanting to move. In fact, the title of my essay collection, could aptly be the title of my life. I've done a good job of convincing myself that I haven't yet found my place--the real one--my destined spot on earth.
This morning, while walking to Starbucks, contemplating whether I should live on the beach, these words flew into my brain: It's not so much where I live, but how I live.
Then I had a revelation about Manhattan: the thing that keeps me rooted here, is that I never have to send the city an email, asking, "Are you available?" Fourteen floors below my window, there it is, beckoning and alive. I lace up my sneaks, snap on my jeans jacket, and voila--we're a couple, in only the way you can be with the city that is New York.
But I am moving; my search (in real-time) is on. I don't know where I'll end up. I really do long for a quieter place; trees closer than fourteen floors away, endless sky not punctuated by spikes and spires.
Followers
