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…
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