Hello, friends. It’s been a little while.
This final semester packed itself with memories. I went to some powerhouse concerts (never forget, Martha Argerich), and I saw lots of good films (ahem, Thelma and Call Me By Your Name). I spent more time in museums. I played more music. It was only bittersweet from time to time; otherwise, it felt very gradual and inevitable. After a few remaining finals, I’ll be saying goodbye to this place.
There is something that I always try to put into words, but even with deliberate thought and eloquence, it never seems to hold any lasting affect—easily dismissed with a smile, or a nod. It is the gratitude that I hold, the deeply infused knowledge that I could not have survived without the help of others. So many people I need to thank, forever and ever.
I think I’ve often said that New York is like a dream. It’s always been a glittering, gorgeous thing in popular imagination—steely, jewel-ridden, buildings sweeping overhead, bombastic streets brimming with life, inhabitants both new and old partaking in a flurry of flickering lights. It is ever-shifting. Here, husks of people and places never remain for long; everything is shuffled, driven forward, and the hallowed past is nothing more than some sweet reminiscence of a time long gone, like any other.
New York is a place where you can walk out at night and stand under the white luminescence of a convenience store, where you can stare at your reflection in the window and feel more alive than you’ve ever felt in your life. It is odd that way. Living here means living inside a city that breathes. However silly that sounds, I think there is something organic amidst the man-made construction, when the after-dark hours still flow with headiness, when the mornings hum in anticipation. During my time here, I have often been swept away by the relentless movement.
I will come back, someday. New York will always offer me the possibility of a home, even if I decline. For that, I will always be grateful.