It occurs to me: this is what it feels like to be happy, to know that everything I need to be complete is already in my possession, that I deserve the good things that happen to me (and there are plenty), that I am loved and able to love, that the only person stopping me from reaching my potential is me. This feels a lot like the fear of the unknown, but today I know that it is joy.
Within the past half-hour, the strangest feeling has come over me, one I’ve previously only experienced while visiting New York City, walking past people eating their lunches side-by-side on park benches in Union Square or navigating Chinatown’s touristy foot traffic or eating knishes at Coney Island or emerging from the subway into Times Square or browsing at Gotham Book Mart (which has since closed) or sipping tea in Teany for the sixth time in six days or finding the sexiest pair of vegan stilettos at Moo Shoes or meeting new friends at Friday night dinner at the Natural Gourmet Cookery School or a thousand other tiny moments in the small spaces of my life spent in the city I love more than any other. On the surface, this feeling is exactly the same as the beginning of a deep and nearly suicidal depression, a sense that I could burst into tears at a moment’s notice, without any real provocation, for no apparent reason. But it also feels like anticipation and hope and surprise and wishing on a star and being twelve again and getting kissed for the first time and falling in love and finding the missing piece to a long-forgotten puzzle.