I’m feeling wistful for NYC and all it entails, and if I weren’t so tired and with a headache, I’d be inclined to hop on the Amtrak there in the morning. I wonder if I’ll one day be happy all the time in one place. If I lived in NYC, would the wanderlust dissipate or take on an intercontinental nature? And what happens then? I’m too old and hardly smart enough — not in the relevant ways, at least — to be an astronaut, and I doubt I’ll ever be rich enough to space-travel any other way. I have this idea that, one day, New York will be enough, in the same way that I viewed not-Texas when I was sixteen. But my 2011 dreams may be just as far-fetched as those of 1989 turned out to be.
What I know to be true is that there is a part of me that comes alive in New York that I can’t even seem to wake up here, except in moments of extreme and rare pure being. I think it goes much deeper than wanderlust, and of course I’m deluded into believing I’m the only one who’s ever felt this way about a city, much less NYC.
I don’t quite feel comfortable, yet, in my position as a future New Yorker. I want it all now, not later. But I also know that heading there on a $94 train ticket in the middle of a blizzard because sledding down Eighth Avenue sounds like more fun than sitting alone in my apartment isn’t the way to get anywhere, much less there.