I was going through old journals and blogs and came across this post from May 2013. Reading through it I realized it is as potent to my life now - now four years into living in New York City - as it was in 2013 when I was only one month in. As a soft launch to my new blog, I wanted to begin with tales of a new year, new goals and a new 'me', but the below somehow feels more appropriate; to begin with a look back - only to realize that while so much has changed not too much has. I'm still that girl - whether 25 or 30 - trying to figure it out. And living here still sometimes doesn't feel real and it is sometimes full of so much joy and very often so much pain.

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New York. Being here so often still doesn't feel real. As if at any moment I might wake up and, having left Neverland behind, be back in the real world of London fog and mild summers. But the dream lives on.

What makes a perfect night in New York?

Who knows if such a thing even exists. The perfect night, after all, is simply a lucky combination of both objective and subjective factors.

But certainly in my short time here I've had a few good ones. Just last night I met a friend in the Lower East side for a poetry reading, my first one ever. As I walked to meet her, wandering down the streets from my West Village home, jazz music floated on the humid air in the background as if New York was serenading me, wooing me to her. The source of this music, a man with his saxophone sat on the steps of one of the City's many concrete parks. Behind him teenage boys played basketball, shouting and hollering at each other in the caged courts along Houston. And for whatever reason, at that moment, I couldn't help but smile at the beauty of the place and time. I felt a joy for the city and its streets that so filled my chest it was spilling out of me like a school girl after her first kiss or someone newly in love.

But, perfect nights are not only allocated to warm summer nights surrounded by brick and concrete and city sounds. I've become quite fond of my nights in, creating a small space just for me. Evenings spent listening to Ella Fitzgerald on the record player while reading a book, having fro-yo for dinner and enjoying a glass of Malbec from a bottle recently purchased at the tiny neighborhood wine shop. This is the recipe for how I've learned to love living on my own. Wine, books and listening to the records belonging to the man I am currently subletting from. And, while I do not know him except for a brief meeting and a number of email exchanges, I feel as if I know him intimately, learning more about him each day as I select a new album to listen to, allowing it to play in the background of my days.

The truth, however, is that New York is not all joy. And, truthfully, New York has yet to impress me or win me over. On all sides it screams at you that you are not yet good enough, smart enough, rich enough, pretty enough. It drives you on and grinds you to the ground as you chase a faint hope of... what? More wealth? More beauty? The promise of greatness?

Who knows.

All I do know is that from personal experience, I've found 'More' to be a very tempting lady, only to discover that she is actually a beast which is never satiated and who only wearies your soul in the chase. Lord help me.

Often I find the city crushing, but more in an emotional sense. It is thrilling and full of so many wonderful things to do and discover, but, I'm tired. One month in and I am so exhausted. Everyday there is a moment I just want to cry - be it out of frustration, stress, a sense of being overwhelmed or loneliness. Or, maybe its because on my run this morning I tripped and splayed myself out all over the concrete sidewalk. And despite it being 6am, there were at least half a dozen construction workers there to admire my beauty and grace as I skidded across the pavement. Ouch. Bless them, they didn't laugh. (goodness knows I would have had I seen it...). But even though each day I want to cry I haven't allowed myself to yet. And I refuse to let myself give in. To cry would be to admit the city has defeated me or that the city is winning, but I plan to be ahead in this game of (wo)man vs. metropolis and will cling to the small moments of joy that keep the tears at bay and bring a sense of hope for that perfect New York day or night.

Tonight has been the warmest summer evening so far. And there is something about warm summer nights that bring hope for what is to come.

(Originally published May 2013)