After watching countless movies, reading hundreds of books and binging on multiple TV series, I’ve learned one thing — all good narratives end where they began.
If you studied English or journalism in college, you may have learned this technique. If you paid attention to your high school English teacher, you’d recognize this as the intro, three paragraphs and conclusion method, where the conclusion should summarize and then tie back to the introductory paragraph.
The beginning of an exciting journey is also the ending.
I haven’t posted in over a year, and to be honest, that disappoints and saddens me. One of my greatest pleasures involves reflecting, followed by writing. I’ve held true to that since I can remember. The power of words held significance for me when I was young, and continued to motivate me as I grew.
Starting my sophomore year of college, all I wanted was to move to New York City after graduation. I landed an internship by chance around that time in NYC and fell in love.
I wish I could convey the power and energy I felt during that summer without sounding cliche, but I don’t think it’s possible so I won’t try.
I set my goal: move to the Big Apple. Most people close to me are quick to make the point that if I set my mind to something, I’ll accomplish it, I’ll achieve it…. I’ll get what I want.
Long story short, I moved to New York City. I packed one suitcase and one carry on, booked a one-way flight with an apartment that a generous, young, hipster couple sublet to my friend and me for 26 days, and I left for New York.
As I mentioned, all good narratives end at the beginning. Or maybe, they begin at the ending. My last post, over a year ago (in contrast to my earlier habitats of posting daily) was at the beginning of my New York journey. It’s no coincidence that it ended there.
I made the move to New York to inspire me. I knew with certainty that my new city would bring out another side of me that hid away. But then I stopped writing.
It may seem insignificant to someone else — everyone keeps a diary every now and again so if you stop writing, who cares? But I know myself, and when I feel no motivation to write, I know something is wrong.
And for 11 months, despite the amazing city I lived in and the most absurd and would-be inspiring moments I experienced, I was not moved to write.
So here I am at the end of my narrative, where I began, back home and miles away from New York City. Some people may classify my year away as a failure: she wanted so badly to move away and now she’s back, she couldn’t handle it. Most people are indifferent, as I would be if one of my acquaintances was writing this (cheers to you if you’re reading, I promise it gets more interesting later) and then a group that I hope continue to read that know that live consists of many choices.
I lost myself for a year. I experienced a sadness new to me. I learned what it felt to be numb.
If you knew me prior to my year in New York, you know the significance of my statement of sadness. For those of you who experience my writing for the first time, hang tight. We’ll go on this journey together.
All good narratives end where they begin.