New York State of Mind

I don't really have an explanation for my blogging habits. It's not like I only post when something important happens. And there is no great reason for the lapses between posts - I simply don't do it for a few weeks. I don't think it's a reflection of me, my life...or anything really. There is life, and then there is the way in which we choose to retell it.

I've been homesick on so many levels recently. I've been homesick for Laverock, for my bed and my couch, for my pets, for my parents, for a fully stocked fridge and my own space. I've been longing for Jon, for some arms to hold me tightly, for someone to kiss, someone to laugh with about nothing, to fall in love with everyday. I've been yearning for Diest, for antiquity and tradition, for romantic ideals and ignored reality, for cobblestones and brick, for a world that's always changing but never changes. I miss comfort, I miss security, I miss confidence and serenity. I miss knowing anything for sure. I miss being a child, when being naive was cute and having hope wasn't foolish. In this city, where no one will ever know your name if you aren't careful (or if you're lucky), it's hard to feel most of the things I know how to feel. Safe. Comfortable. Strong. Quiet. Not alone. And yet it is the easiest thing in the world to be scared, lonely, weak. I wrote a poem in one of my first weeks here about the New York state of mind, and I feel that this is as good a time as any to publish it.

We are so rarely alive
That life
In the breath of the leaves as they
await their departure
In the pulse of the birdsong
naive yet sorrowful
Disturbs
This disruption of a hollow existence
Of our carefully crafted shelters -
faces and masks are interchangeable -
Forces interaction
Forces sunlight
through the steel blinds that we
never
again
planned to open.