Finding Myself in ... New York ... Again.

                8 months since I've been back in New York City, returned from 2 years traversing over the mountains of the West and through the fields of emotions that flooded in heavy downpours. 8 Months working toward something for me—working toward me. This journey may go on forever, but it's one that I finally enjoy taking. But this place —this city—is a hard reminder of what used to be. When you've become something different than your past, it is an odd feeling to return to the place where that person used to live, where you left them to fade away. Most mornings are a gift, something that I'm effortlessly grateful for. There is so much eagerness to meet the day that I feel a surge of energy and fling open the windows so I can stick my head out and look towards the sky; to great the glow of the aged bricks that make up the Brownstones across the street from me, radiant in their morning sun; to wave back at the tree which sprouts out in front of my window, gently swaying in the morning breeze.

                This morning, though, I woke up groggy; my head feeling heavy and one of my nostrils plugged. I tried to get up and walk it off, opening the curtains, going around in circles, looking out the windows, looking at the tea kettle and thinking of tea but not making any, looking at my phone from the corner of my eye; all attempts to avoid something. But nothing worked, and I ended up back in bed. An hour later my hip flexors had turned to stone. I shuffled to the bathroom and almost fell over trying to sit down. I did some stretches and tried to exercise myself awake, but my body denied me the energy. I stood under the hot shower and wished I was under warm blankets instead. Lethargy oozed through my veins and solidified in my joints. Aches and pains urging me to give up.

                I made it to the train, under the gentle rainfall, and put on some music. Quickly, I was in a melancholic trance, so I changed up the tempo. The train filled with gay men, all seeming to wear the same outfit of shorts and sweaters on the cold, rainy morning. A few gay couples gathered on the platform and I thought about love. I forced myself to get off a stop early so I could walk the streets; more gay couples in shorter shorts. I was on the borderline of Chelsea and West Village, after all. And then it hit me: love— I used to be in love.

                An emergency sign from the hospital in front of me flashed in a warning and I thought: ah, there it is, the pain that ailed me this morning—you. That memory of you loving me sits like a slipped disc in my back; it is the cramp in my right hip; it is the sudden drop of my heartbeat and the sharp stab between my ribs when I realize that I carry the pain of you around everywhere I go. Often, unaware, it flares up and nearly knocks me to the street. Standing there under the emergency sign of the hospital, the ambulance would not have had to go far to resuscitate me, but I’m not sure they have enough electricity in their defibrillators, or adrenaline to push into my system, that would push you completely out.

                In those moments I only have one thing that can overrun my absent love: anger. So now I’m angry. Angry for the day. Angry for my job. Angry for the rain, and gay men, and tall buildings, and my lethargy, and my loneliness. I don’t want to be angry again. I want my happiness. But here, in this place—this city—my happiness used to be you. And without it, what do I have?