I left New York twice. The first time I was younger and filled with ambition. The second time I was older and even more ambitious.
That tends to be the case when you have a lot more to lose.
Like most, New York evolved into my abusive lover who I couldn’t get away from because I was certain we belonged together. Despite concrete proof to the contrary.
I couldn’t bring myself to admit the unfathomable. I didn’t want to face the paralyzingly truth that I just may have wasted the best years of my life chasing a ghost.
But to be honest — we are all chasing ghosts. Plowing, fumbling, running towards something that we are convinced will receive us with open arms and make it all better.
The moment I mentally promised myself that I would make New York City my partner for life was when I sold myself to the devil in a party dress. It we such an irresistible proposition and one that I didn’t take lightly.
Of course I would reunite with the city of my dreams at the perfect age of 24 and then who knows? The sky’s the limit.
Seven years later I endured a very necessary and bitter break up. I had been tormented relentlessly and brutally assigned the awful truth. I wasn’t good enough for New York.
