The walks I love to take have been replaced with staring out my writing window. From my spot, with my legs flung over the arm of the small blue couch I held on to and lugged from my old studio apartment, I have seen the way the sun hits the silver buildings of downtown Manhattan. I have watched the way they reflect and burn orange, then melt towards dusky pink.
The office of my day job has moved to a new floor and light pours in from windows now and if I lift up just slightly from my chair, for the first time, I can see right over the new cubicle walls. I can make out the bump of Bert's headphones and I realize, besides Bert forcing me out of the house to drink beers on the beach with him in Coney Island or sending me off some late Saturday night to a strange warehouse or cavernous bunker to watch him DJ, he and I have talked, every day, through the old walls, for years. And now they are gone.
So, without the biking, tread-milling, walking, I have been sitting and reading and writing and thinking. I have been looking out through windows and over walls and I've accepted that things are different. I've tried to imagine my own new altar in which to stand. I have dreamt of so many new possibilities. In just a few days, some beautiful opportunities have been given to me, as if by magic, and as I cautiously whisper and wish for them, no matter where they lead, I feel a shift. I have slowed down enough to see that things can change and I want to be part of a new movement of me.