Being home had been so easy and comfortable and familiar. I had been surrounded by so many friends who are family and family who are friends, I had returned to my cocoon of "the usual" and it had felt so nice, and so easy, and so carefree. And here I was back in the city that really is a beast, with its constant rushing, it's only-extreme weather, it's pulse, it's dogged understanding that no matter how hard you push and how hard you work you will always only be just making it. It just didn't seem anything other than exhausting and I wondered why I was fighting so hard to remain here.
And then this morning, as I walked from the gym to work in my new shoes, as I mused over how quiet the gym had been in its near-emptiness this morning, as I traipsed up the street which was still fairly empty (for Manhattan, anyway) and as I thought on how my weekends would be just as delightfully sparsely populated once this move to Brooklyn comes to fruition, and I remembered why I came to New York. I didn't come to find comfort, that's for sure, I came to find me, and to find something different, and to see what it is that makes me tick. And even if this is my last span here, and my original three-year tentative plan downgrades to just a two-year plan, I certainly have to try living in the one borough which I can't help but feel will combine the proximity to the greatest city in the world with the smaller-neighborhood feel that holds so much comfort from San Diego. So, if I just keep at it, something will work out with housing, and maybe once all the moving stress and renting stress and money stress starts to be alleviated, New York won't seem like such a beast after all. Maybe. I almost forget how I felt when I first got here and was only in awe of the potential of the city.
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