October 15th 2015
Story originally written and experienced: October 21st 2012
I woke up in New Orleans and went to bed in New York.
Which is exactly what I wanted.
I was down south for a couple of reasons:
1. It was my childhood home and I wanted to visit again—but this time as a blossomed, mature adult.
And the other reason was:
2. I needed to get away.
A moment to trade in my timed work hours for untimed weekend ones.
Escape the relentless energy of New York City and seek something a little.less.relentless.
And after a freeing weekend filled with
Arguing with mystical creatures:
And driving me = = = 00-^^-00 = = = = to the airport.
On the way.
I found myself thinking two things:
1. How nice it was to have more s p a c e. And breathe different air. Experience a new culture, another type of person and how patient and simple this place was compared to where I came from, and how cool it was that
I could sit on
Of almost any cobblestone street and watch a horse carriage go by.
But I also thought.
2. How much I loved where I was heading home to. How New York City was mine and exactly where I needed/wanted to be. Almost all the time. And how I’d miss the hell out of it if I were anywhere else.
I guess I realized.
If every time we come back.
We consistently get excited to touch ground and land in a place we not only missed, but know also feel like we belong to?
Then we’re doing it damn right.
New York isn’t the only place I’ve felt that way about.
I could once say the same for:
And between you and me.
I’ll feel that way again about someplace else.
After New York.
But until that feelings runs out in this ridiculous, relentless and rogue city of mine.
It feels damn good to be home.