new york, it's you & me now.
Dear New York,
I've forgotten myself in this way. I thought I forgot to pack this particular sentiment of mine, or that I had just lost my hearing of it amidst your bustle and noise. I thought this was it, that I packed up my home and I left for you, for more, and subsequently left me behind in search of Me in you, New York.
Turns out this sentiment packs itself quite lightly until the moment it doesn't -- and thick tears crack onto cheeks.
I must say, I am not sad. Well, this is quite a relief for me. I can earnestly say that I am not sad and it has nothing to do with you, New York. I'm realizing that I've been blaming you for so much in these past 6 months, but how at closer inspection, this pain carries my fingerprint, not yours.
Here, I'm summoned to explain my inexplicable tendencies towards feelings of emptiness. How I can wake one morning and only feel how cold it must be in the centre of the looming clouds above me. I'm summoned to write of this tendency and to turn it into some large ordeal to attempt to display how magnificent the pit fall feels, but I'm trying here not to.
It's not that I don't trust you, New York, to understand what I mean. You and your subterranean tunnels, miles of which have been abandoned over centuries of changed plans and closed lineages. Your veins piece this island that speak of a history that carries revolutions, yes, but a lot of grief, too. I know you know what I mean. In that same way, I won't pick up your trash, and so don't with mine.
I've realized that I try to romanticize every aspect of my life, and in particular, my thoughts. The life might do no harm to play with, but the dangerous territory is the thoughts. I play around enough with the spectrum of my emotions, almost taunting my ability to evoke any memory, mine or borrowed, into thought and feel my heart pulse and wither. To speak with less words crowding my mouth, what I am trying to say here is that I can be in the shower, taking a shower, and a thought simply walks in to wash itself, too. Instead of a wash, I feel I dig a hole out of the side of my head for my entire brain to be rinsed, and all these words flow into waves so beautiful and cathartic, but I try to keep it all so I hold out my cupped hands and watch the ocean fall down my naked body.
I feel I've been selling my thoughts to myself while living here, New York. It's as if my thoughts, as they were on their own pace, are not good enough without the orchestra of a thousand voices harmonizing behind them. And I fall for this exquisite billboard, and I scramble out the shower, water on the checkered floors, and find my journal and dot the pages soaked before pen touches paper and --- what did I want to say? I clear the water out my ears to realize that I was listening to my heartbeat, not the globe’s connected oceans in the echo of the shell.
New York, you are romanticized to a point where I cannot even wear my hat that tucks my 4-day unwashed hair away without having some jingle ring in the back of my head saying "oh how New Yorker you must look right now!" I feel I am watching my entire life here like a character in a movie that I despise but I cannot stop watching. I have enough to critique the plot about, such as the character's decision to live in the most expensive city in North America, hand-in-hand with how alien a rapidly gentrifying place can feel, but I keep watching because the cinematography is picturesque: here is the story of a girl who lives in one of the most interesting places in the world, but she doesn't even know it because she only wants to go for aimless walks and attempt to organize the tsunami of emotions ravaging at her from the inside out.
But this is not your fault, New York. I blamed you for everything, but it was me who forgot to write a little addendum on the lease to say "I am a sensitive person who has to walk and to write, so please allow me some space to walk or peace to write." I blamed you for the lack of joy in my face, the practical thoughts that littered my head, and, most painfully, the lack of ink on my fingertips, my journals, and my books for I thought you had entered the little corner of peace within me and ravaged it entirely.
No, you are just a city, New York, and you gave me a job, an apartment, and a stage for my musings. I write to you now because you are now my home, and as any home does, you hold the resident at their best and most vulnerable states. What I'm trying to say to you, New York, is it's you and me. You with your thing that's going well for you, and me with my thing that I’m trying to figure out.
Please accept my sincere apology. I lost my self these past 6 months and thought lost luggage would remain lost luggage. I hope we can work this out.