I last posted on this blog on January 19th, 2017. It is currently April. April. It’s been 3 months since I have been able to actually write a damn thing. For someone who has always been able to write, even on the darkest days, being unable to do so has been incredibly jarring.
I sat in my very first class at Lang on a sunny day in August 2011, a bright-eyed freshman with sweat on my forehead, dressed to the nines for an 11 am class as the rest of the students shuffled in with a lackluster look in their eyes.
A place where fashion and art collide, Milan is a place where the streets are paved with history as freshly baked brioches waft through the morning air.
The reason why I came to Europe in the first place is due, in most part, to the unsurmountable amount of pain that had been pressing heavy on my chest for over a year now.
There’s a common misconception that living in NYC means you’re easily adaptable to change. It’s a hustling, bustling city where transition is welcomed and New Yorkers are supposed to meet change head on.
However, I don’t agree.
Last weekend, I was trying to explain to someone why I travel alone.
With fall finally upon us, Manhattan sidewalks are scattered with the first swirls of fallen leaves, fiery oranges and reds kissing the tips of trees. The hot summer air is suddenly lighter, shadows longer, and the air more heavy. Full of thoughts for the winter to come, Fall wraps its arms around our bare shoulders and caresses us with it’s frosted touch.