I have never felt like I belong, or that I am where I am meant to be. Never. When I was a kid, I often sat contemplating, dreaming and imagining what existed beyond the desolate fields of the prairie town in which I lived. Beyond captured my imagination and grabbed hold of my soul, and as though it knew what I needed, it was always whispering, calling. In stillness and chaos, I could hear it. Silently I carried those whispers like fuel and found solace in the step I knew I would one day take. Even then, I understood that I was destined to harbour an ache and long for the unknown, but for reasons, I couldn’t quite understand. I just knew that Beyond offered something necessary and that listening was vital to my well-being – it was what would save me.
So, I am sitting in a coffee shop in Greenwich Village, New York, and I don’t know for sure what I want to write, so I am just going to start spewing out some words and hope that, in the end, they make sense. If they don’t, well, I am sitting in a coffee shop in New York City, writing, and I consider that in itself enough.
Unquestionably, this city takes up the vast majority of my heart, for reasons even I don’t understand – so don’t bother asking me why I love it so much, I just do. Pretty sure, though, that I was born with NYC blood pumping through my veins. I am adopted, so it is completely reasonable to think that my birth mother shagged some guy named Bobby from FDNY Ladder 69 – nobody really knows the story of my conception, so who’s to say it’s not true.