All my life, I’ve looked towards the city.
I saw myself there – in my one-bedroom apartment, or on the street outside of my building hailing a cab, or on my way to a restaurant with friends. Or even just (and to be honest, mostly) standing in the center of it all, looking up.
In high-school, my junior class trip was to Boston. As we drove into the city for dinner our first night there, I stared up around us at the lights and a boy sitting next to me on the bus remarked, “You’re one of those people. The kind of person who just thinks the city is so beautiful.”
And I was. Oh, I was.
In that moment, I so wanted to be a part of it all, to get out of the small town where it felt like everyone knew my name (even though they didn’t – I couldn’t even say that about everyone in my high-school. It’s small, but not that small), and escape to somewhere among the skyscrapers. I wanted to find myself in an office with a city-view window, looking out over the beautiful winding roads and oddly shaped buildings that I got to call home.
It seemed so big, and I felt big enough to fit inside of it.