When I turned 25, I asked myself a question: “When was the last time I didn't have my shit together?”
If you ask my friends and one-night stands from college, you'll find the answer hiding behind freshman and sophomore years. Beyond those formative years of binge drinking, eating, and loving – I am always controlling myself.
To no one's surprise, "controllers" are generally born from navigating through strict and unstable households, so this level of always having my shit together isn't an inherent trait. I never considered myself a risk-taker because I refuse to see the point of potentially failing. So, I keep everything tidy and clean in life, without a single layer of dust on anything I touch.
However, once everything in my life started to feel like a task to complete instead of a memory to fulfill, I knew I needed to make some changes. Last winter, I decided that in the summer I’d move to New York and live alone for the first time. Though I packed a CVS-length receipt of preconceptions with me, it never deterred the feeling of achieving a dream I've had for so long I don’t even remember when it started.
I took a risk (one of many I hope) and moved to the city on a hot summer day in July. In this, I’m learning that moving is messy. Moving to the city is messy—physically and emotionally. This new territory of thinking made a couple of things clear after a week of living alone in my cute little third-floor walk-up by the East River.
One, I didn’t need my bedding and living room furniture organized before roaming my neighborhood, joint in hand, humming to HONNE’s remixes. Two, I didn't need a fully stocked fridge of Trader Joe’s groceries and cookware before I could enjoy my first meal in my kitchen. Three, I didn't need a standing desk before I could write a single line of poetry already etched in the lines of my palms.
E.B. White said something that I resonate with but, at the same time, am mortified by the accuracy. "A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper."
For a while, in this 400-something-square-foot apartment, I thought I needed perfection in my home before I could create experiences in it—before I could feel like writing again. And when I stopped needing perfection in writing and in moving, I sought out reason. I vigorously looked for a reason to spring into action, to find purpose in this decision to live in New York.
I didn’t move to the city for a job, family, or lover.
I moved because I thought about a young girl with curly black hair who was always taking a second glance at people’s apartment windows. She noticed how each window had a different light: moods of pink, green, yellow, orange, and blue. She wondered who the people were behind those windows, who they were coming home to, and what they were doing with all those lights on.
Reflections of those lights danced in her eyes as she dreamt that one day, she’d have a window of her own—a window with lights projecting through the glass, causing a chain of innocent curiosity from others down below where they too glanced at her place before passing by.
Finally, inside an empty room with a window of my own, I kept asking myself, “What am I doing here?” even though I thought I knew deep down. My therapist told me it's okay to say, “I'm here because I want to be,” but I didn't believe that. I couldn't bring myself to swallow that statement. “I'm here because I want to be” felt foreign and selfish for some reason on my tongue when I said it out loud for the first time.
I knew it wasn't about trying to find an answer to that question but being comfortable with not knowing instead. And even though I was meant to soak in the mystery of an unsolved answer, I found that having some reminders of why I should be here was enough.
I moved to New York to be a writer. I moved to find out who I am when left alone. I moved to chase plotlines, to make memories and mistakes. I moved to breathe easier and live in a perpetual state of hysteric abundance. I moved to sit in my mess and forget my misfortunes for a second. I moved so I could, for once, listen to this unsteady heart beating instead of trying to fix it.
I know it is a privilege to have nothing bring me to the city except an enigmatic purpose that requires no meaning or deadline to find it. At the same time, no one tells you the crashing effects of achieving a long-term dream can feel so devastatingly empty. It's as if I must mourn this dream of mine because, for a decade, I followed a path toward it without rest. Now that I made it, it suddenly burst into a kind of celebratory confetti. I can't hold it in my hands anymore because I am supposed to be living through it—through every little piece of joy and redemption.
No one tells you that once a dream is achieved, it is not dead—it just turns into confetti. I guess this is where I grieve a million little pieces scattered around my feet and smile, however painful, and walk the other way prepared to dream another dream.
its 2 38 a.m rn, i just read "No one tells you that once a dream is achieved, it is not dead—it just turns into confetti. I guess this is where I grieve a million little pieces scattered around my feet and smile, however painful, and walk the other way prepared to dream another dream." and my heart hurts so much. bless you, wherever you are <3