My apartment on East 9th Street always felt like a beginning.
I had a lot of firsts there—my first bouquet, chopped short to fit in a coffee mug. The first time I walked through a movie set on my way to eat a dollar slice on my living room floor. It was the first place I lived on my own—no family, roommates, or sorority sisters filling the empty spaces and silence.
What if you could rewrite your past? Take White-Out to the decisions you previously made, erase part of the journey, or rip out chapters hoping that doing so improves your story. Could you do it?
Is there something you are also hiding from—something you wish you could do-over?
New York City and I weren’t always friends; frankly, we hated each other when we moved in together. I learned the hard way how to make it here. I had to stop trying to replicate a feeling and find out who I was in this city. New York came into focus when I started to recognize simple pleasures. Like going down the subway station stairs as your train pulls into the platform or a golden hour walk in Central Park. But I have a hard time forgetting where we began.