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An(n)a was born in the Caribbean and spent her childhood a 15-minute drive away from the beach where she never bothered to learn how to swim. She once won a year's supply of Chick-Fil-A sandwiches on a local game show. Much like a puppy around new friends, she doesn't know how to hide her enthusiasm. She lives in New York where she goes to school and moonlights as an astrologer (not really).

Lurk a little. Go on.

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January 19, 2012

Sometimes it’s really cold and you can’t feel your fingers but you laugh anyway. Probably you’ll remember that weekend and ask yourself how you were ever so young that you didn’t know which 14th street station to stop at.

I spent the long weekend with my best friend, of metanoia museum fame, and her top-notch coconspirator-slash-lover.

Once upon a time I was really into reflecting. I kept diaries. I lay awake at night and stared at my ceiling, replaying my recent and not-so-recent greatest hits and flops. Nostalgia has always been too easy for me, especially for pasts I never lived (although, nothing we yearn for is ever what it actually was). But lately I’ve avoided reflection. I’ve moved on to fabricating stories, criticizing thoughts and actions I didn’t think or make, to living more externally, in an effort to avoid the spirals of melancholy that are all too easy for me to indulge in.

This past weekend was wonderful and there’s nothing else I have to say about it. At least, nothing Sylvia didn’t already say in a beautiful post about our visit to the Met.