For all of my 16 years I've lived and written in New York City. New York is where dreams are realized. But growing up in a city of dreams makes them almost taboo.
The “huddled masses yearning to breathe free” flock to New York, backpacks heavy with dreams. Maybe they're battered, or broken, or unattainable, but they're solid. They're tangible. They're irrefutably real. They've been lugged from Wisconsin or Russia or Ghana, across state lines, family ties, or language barriers.
But where's there to go when you can see the Empire State Building from your roof? What kind of dreams can grow in the concrete jungle?
I've never been religious, but the act of writing has always felt holy to me. It's been this sort of ineffable force guiding my life since I could hold a crayon.
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