It has now been two weeks and while I cry less, the days haven’t gotten any easier. The sleepless nights have started. Being around people is becoming a chore. Everything seems too loud and too bright. I got a new Nikon to distract me and because creativity strikes only when I’m at my lowest. Now all I want is to escape. I keep searching for vacation packages and tours in Europe. I would sell whatever I could if it meant I could go to Paris for a week to do nothing but eat cheese and bread and drink wine and read. Before I got married, I would pack up a small suitcase and run away to New York when I needed to get lost. Now I’m tied to this place and these people I love. I’m not the only one suffering so I can’t just leave. I have to find comfort in escaping in books.
In Harold Rabinowitz’s book A Passion for Books, there is an essay by Anna Quindlen titled “How Reading Changed My Life”. In it, she writes,
I’ll have to find a book about the New York I miss so much.