What A Strange Home

A love letter to New York

This is a transient place for everyone else. They come with a dream, they achieve it, they don’t.

Most likely, they don’t.

But I was born here. This is home. And what a strange home. When I travel, this is the base I return to.

You’ll be ignored then strangely saved.

People are rude but they will help you, take pity on you, if you ask to not be seen. And your philosophies can be tested:

Being stoic is only worthwhile if you can be stoic on fire.

So can you keep that calm under pressure?

Can you turn your trauma into a strength?

Can you turn down that modeling contract? Better yet, can you accept it without caring about it?

Because this city loves rewarding indifference.

High highs.

Low lows.

I’ve slept on a rooftop with a jacket as a blanket, and under the desk at my college, and I’ve been in Jay-Z’s club, and I’ve paid nothing for things that have costed thousands, and I’ve stayed up working night after night, and I’ve eaten well and I’ve treated myself like garbage, and there hasn’t been much in-between: Not here.