You Can’t Go Home Again

Hey, New York. I’m sorry, but I think it’s over. It’s not you. It’s me. Actually. It’s you.

New York will always be my home. Raised on LI, my family ties are here. That’s a hard thing to shake no matter where you’re from. That New York seemed to offer riches exclusive to itself is perhaps why I’ve stayed so long. Why I always come back. When I was a kid, I would walk around Soho and imagine myself walking the same streets, but on my way to my loft apartment. I had a pretty active fantasy life. But more than ever I’m realizing I’m an outsider. New York is not my city. It never was, no matter how hard I wanted it to be.

The internet makes us queens of whatever universe we choose. The fabric of the universe is our own design. But for some reason I feel the same about my online world than I do about New York. That I’m trapped in a repetition of sites, blogs, info sources – like I’m doomed to stalk the same neighborhoods, museums, restaurants and bars. There is no city like New York, but I’ve been here all my life. Different can be good.

In the end we’re a collection of habits and desires, one always in service of the other. I’m realizing lately that my habits are bad for me and that my desires can be met elsewhere, without the sacrifice of well-being. I’m too poor to enjoy the best of what NY offers, and too old to be poor here. I’m a writer in search of a community. And a bigger apartment.

I lied. It’s me.

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