“In the end, the only things worth doing are the things that might possibly break your heart.” – Colum McCann, Letters to a Young Writer
This blog is ending soon because I’m going to focus it and write a travel blog instead -where travel writing meets poetry – something like that – with my own photos.! It will be announced here. Because I’m moving to China in September! I am going to write about the new places I see as well as the old places I’ve been.
I will be back in NYC as soon as it’s over. Because I’ve never felt more at home in a place than here. I will continue this blog until the travel blog is launched (next month). This is a document of my first two years in New York. It’s a document of the years twenty-three to twenty-five. Right now I can’t sleep and I feel cold and confused. But looking over the journey I’ve taken this past two years grows a light inside me. I’m proud of how far I’ve come and I look forward to how far I have yet to go. I have tools. I take breaths. I still attach to that which I love (and therefore that which causes me misery), but I allow myself the space to do so. I allow myself the pain, the vulnerability, the risk. I allow the sadness from lost, as I allow the celebration from the gain.
And everything pulses over and the
The pulse under everything is
Who was he becomes
Who was named becomes
One endless night, I
[my only experience of desire is furious]
I keep repeating this throughout
It’s sad that we are in life together and then time happens and all the sudden we are not.
The longer you live, the more their faces pile up inside your chest, the longer you live, the further you get – they’ll just be dust puffs in the air (what once was flesh) – but the possibility to see one another still exists, and so we tolerate each others distance.
Dying is sad because the possibility is gone forever.