Dear NYC,

When I was younger, I was able to go to Central Park every single day. It was simple. There was a carousel and fields that seemed to extend past the imaginable. The enormity of the park was incomprehensible for me. It was easy to live. The Strand Bookstore was thunderous in my mind. Every slam of a book and every piece of dust that fluttered down was explosive. My block was the most familiar and thus: the best. I watched as Madison Square Park changed every season and every holiday. And yet, I was still so amazed.

And slowly, my secret corner of a boat on the Hudson River was invaded by others who had been there before but had also been unnoticeable. The used-to-be massiveness of the East River had faded into just a pool of water. The millions of novels that crowded my home became long untouched. The Virgin Records disappeared into a mere vacant room. Columbus Circle became less of a circle and more of a line of business.

I guess that when you are in one place and one sole place for so many years, you begin to stop seeing what is so enlightening about it in the first place. I started taking something for granted, and started picturing that thing as something that merely kept me sane because of its familiarity. So if I were to choose...Yes, NYC, I need to leave you for a little bit and maybe in a few years when I am old enough to start missing the insanity of you, I will come back.