I don’t know about you, but the messier my apartment, the more cluttered my mind seems to be.
Moving, as with most things in life, works better with intention and focus.
And yet, New York, I love you. And I don’t mean that in the colloquial way, but in that ridiculous all-consuming inconvenient can’t live without you kind of way.
Stay single until you meet someone and realize home has never been a place but rather this person and wherever they are that’s home.
My body is the house I grew up in
Through her windows, I get to see
Through her chimney, I get to breathe
Her foundation always supporting me
It’s learning every day that you can survive anywhere, but you can only truly live at home.
When you’re homesick for a person, you cannot find where you belong unless it’s with one another, making a dwelling in one another’s hearts, one another’s souls.
I will love my body, even when the world shakes her head, even when there are a million and one reasons I shouldn’t, even when I’ve grown tired. Because my body is my home—my dwelling place, my residence, my constant in a world that is far too impermanent. And so, I will live here. I will love here. I will grow here. I will break and rebuild here.
Starting over will absolutely be the breath of fresh air that you need, as long as you’re open to the way and shape all these new changes will present themselves to you.
The world stands still for a moment. I’m taken aback by how comfortable I feel, almost as if I’m melting into this seat, even with the summer sun burning into my skin. I love the warmth. It reminds me of home.