the sappiest love letter to a non-entity: to my new york
Dear City,
They say that there’s a moment, somewhere between immigration and clearing customs, when it dawns on you that you are in a different place: a place where the paradigm has shifted, and in many ways, you are also brand new. There is something to be said for being away from home, I think. There is something liberating in being a stranger somewhere strange. Somewhere, dear New York, like you.
But can I tell you something true? Even as a newcomer, I have never felt like a stranger within your brownstone borders and warehouse walls. I often wondered why. I think about this hold you have over me, why my gut twists in knots when I’m elsewhere, why I seem to hear some kind of siren call when I’m away too long. The answers dawn on me on the walk home from the subway. I feel the rain as it falls ever so gently, and I imagine you patting my head, like I were a silly, little child. As with many things in my life, it should have been obvious, if only I could stop myself from running so hard: you have made me yours, but more importantly, I have made you mine.
Another truth, this one curious: even with the way I zigzag around the world, even with how I leave parts of me in the little crevices of other people’s lives – books and shirts and wellies scattered in Vegas and Seoul and London, one thing, oddly enough, holds: no matter what I do, it seems I only ever fall in love within the bounds of my New York. Whenever I come to you, I find another piece to my puzzle. Whenever I come to you, I feel hope for myself, and I fall in love, all over again. And I realize, it’s because I have fallen madly, deeply in love with you too.
I made my way to the refuge of your arms, your cradle of insomniacs and the dream-addled, when I was twenty two, and you changed me, irrevocably, completely. It was in your streets that I found myself, where I realized who I wanted to be, where I saw the silhoutte of my “I”. I grew up and grew into an adult on the concrete skin of your myriad alleys and avenues. In many ways, I will never leave; you have settled deep into blood and bone. I am a New Yorker; I claim the title arrogantly, rashly, honestly. Manila is the mother that birthed me, but you are the lover that I choose, the mate to whom I cleave. Both of you are important in different ways. And both of you are irreplaceable.
You know I made the decision to take this break from you a few weeks back. You must have felt me pull away a little, hesitant and sad. And for a while, I couldn’t tell anyone. I wasn’t ready for the barrage of well-intentioned cheer. As we age, we feel the pull of gravity more keenly, and we see its effects on the lines on our faces and the dip of our flesh; we feel its weight on castles in the air, and lofty, little dreams. I decided to leave because there was no logical reason to stay; we aren’t good for each other at the moment. It’s you and me both; there’s some more growing up that I must do.
More truth: leaving is more bitter than sweet, and it pains me. I love who I am when I’m lost in your cafes and bookshops, immersed in a million readings that make me overflow; I am more myself in the maze of you than anywhere else. Under the light of your gaze, I shine, and I feel free and passionate and strong. It’s when I’m in the space of you that I feel closest to being truly understood. Manila has pieces of my heart, but you hold huge chunks of my soul, and maybe that’s why I know I will always come back. You see, there are only a few things I’m good at, and I like to think that love is one of them. I love unreservedly, unashamedly, and I love you, dear New York. Dear city, how I love you. You are part of my axis now, a reference point that pins me in place. My world has split in two, and I find that I cannot split myself between them. I cannot give you up, but I cannot give in to you either, at least not now. Circumstances have conspired… and you know the rest.
Our roads diverge, as they must. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, and they are expectant - there are other worlds to see, other me’s to be, other things that I must do. Then again, this isn’t another path, not really. It’s just the longer way. But how else did it go? Oh yes, still miles to go before I sleep. So wait for me, please. I’m not well enough to be with you at the moment, but wait, because I promise that one day soon, I will be.
Life pulls me away again, but only for now. I know at some point, you will pull harder. And I will be waiting too.
Love,
Me
Originally published on Tumblr, April 2011.