On Not Taking the Time


It’s 11:26pm and I’m a melancholy soul–the flavor that emerges after a day and its expectations failed to coincide. Visions for August 25 that I’ll never have actualized and get cast into the future or dumped in the gutter or left on a decrepit, creaky chair to be found next spring cleaning.

Why is the gap between whom I want to be and who I manage to be so in flux? How can I glide through Fort Tyron Park, stick my toes in the Hudson River, inflict myself with shin splints after walking 120+ blocks and find my capacities so stunted and inadquate the next?


I still have this dumb graphic of five sharks , a 3D flower and fruit still life and a gold plated vase with floral goodness spilling out onto my walls. Plus my colored post-its. Someone help this girl unleash her inner interior designer.


None of this happens by accident. How often in life do you have one of those days where you meet five people who will be your best friends for the next five years?

I lived that day. I lived that day where the space between me who I aspired to be and me who breathed was very narrow and perhaps it was not that my actions themselves were ones that I would admire but that those other five found them admirable in me.






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