My NYC

Is it just me?

I have this beautiful and vibrant nirvana that I need to reach in order to feel close to my destiny. I call this my NYC, my New York New York. The stuff dreams youthful are made of. I see myself walking the streets in my funky afro without a care in the world, book stores and cafes galore. And guess what, all my fashion dreams meet to have coffee at a jazz lounge while an open mic poetry session makes for a mural. You see it? I see it. But the thing is, my New York is not in America or my street style being randomly snapped by the most intriguing hybrid of a human come fashion altar. No. Sorry.

My dreams are made of the grassy fields of the Transkei and the unspoilt shores of my country. Maybe a walk in closet with a day bed,  a perfect hiding spot with a book shelf. My New York is filled with music and poetry. Did I leave out parties? What? Parties for daaaaays.

Imagine a place where I feel content with who you’ve become in life, against all odds and many rewriting of your Dream and Goals script. A perfectly still existence where the din of the opinions of others cannot filter through even when you post a no make up selfie with all your blemishes and pimples. A belonging, to self and those who deserve your time. Having walked long enough to know and appreciate the difference between love and love. Choosing to follow your heart and fly to your New York, the stuff YOUR dreams are made of.

Between me and you, we got nothing to lose. And best of all, I don’t even need an air ticket to get to my New York.

Mood:   Who’s with me????

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