Tuesday, November 2, 2010

dears.

dearest brooklyn:
it's pretty interesting how fondly i think of you even when i think of making my escape. today, as i daydreamed into the mundane midday, picturing myself digging through my ancestry, standing in the power of the sun during inti raymi, i thought of you, of finding the strength of my roots on your sidewalks. of reminding my ancestors of our uprooted reality, of worshiping in bed-stuy like i might in guayaquil. i saw myself becoming; shifts i make from condors to eagles to rock doves (read: pigeons) to lose myself in commonality, in reclamation, in imagined spaces we write ourselves into.

i came of age in the bronx, making the long trip on a route the D train would suffice for to a brooklyn attic full of teenage love/passion/angst. brooklyn, you seemed so distant then. so far away, so unreal. when we were strangers to me you meant: coney island salt on my tongue, smoking weed with an amalgam of flatbush boys, bridges i had yet to learn to distinguish, and a sense of anonymity that gave me escape.

today, as i thought of my journey between homes, i envisioned myself with my tiny backpack of bare essentials, walking back onto the A train, full of new memories and reflections. and i realized that in my heart of hearts, you had become me and mine and home.

and so, i begin to write you. to think about you and even in being here, feeling a longing and nostalgia. a desire to stay. you're like a lover i don't want to see go, telling you, as i feel you pressing onto me, that i love you and miss you and dream little moments with you all the time.

there are many other things i'd like to say to you. and for now my inadequate musings will have to suffice.

all my love.

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