Dreams Come True

I know you’re thinking, “How old is she, 12?”

Nope, 21.

Moving on.

This is my favourite photo of myself not just because it’s one of the only photos I feel I look honestly pretty in, or because I believe I am genuinely happy, or because being genuinely happy in the photo makes me honestly pretty.  You read yesterday’s post, I’m not going to dwell on self-loathing two days in a row!  Sigh of relief.

If you’re savvy, you might recognize that I am standing in Central Park, approximately 3 years and 4 months before I moved here and almost seven years to the day I write this post.

In this photo, I am so deeply and hopelessly in love with New York City.  My every thought consumed.  I spend my days wandering the streets looking all around me trying to absorb as much as possible, to put into words how I feel, wanting to be a New Yorker! 

I study their fashion trends to copy them and be one of the multitudes on the catwalks of the streets. 
I want to eat at an outdoor cafe as passersby like myself pang with jealousy at my glamorous life of ease. 
I want to smell of dirt, exhaust, and Nuts 4 Nuts, inhaling the deep, sweet odors unlike anything before.

I want to throw my arms around the tree behind me and hold fast, believing that if dreams were currency and sincerity counted towards your credit score, I could own an apartment in glamorous Manhattan and this could be my life.

Seven years later…

…and it kinda is.

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