I have this dream that
apartamento will ask me to write one of the introspective essays that opens their magazine, but I'm not holding my breath for that to happen anytime soon and so I wrote this for *fruitpunch, maybe you've heard of it, possibly you're reading it
right now (meta).
It's hard to pick a starting point for this post, a lifestyle post when my lifestyle has so drastically changed. You might think it should be easy, as I'm beginning a new life here in New York, but I find myself looking back on my former living situation (and its style) and feel in limbo. I am enjoying a borrowed space that cannot and won't be mine, though I've come to find much contentment here. Knowing that my enjoyment of this place has an expiration date hasn't diminished the pleasure of folding myself into that Eames lounger with a book of Wendell Berry essays, nor can I truthfully say that it has made me put any extra effort into savoring every minute that I can pretend this is all mine. Really I'm just ignoring the fact that this is another man's home; that outside the frames of these artfully cropped and filtered photos there is art that I don't understand, records I didn't collect and books I've never read. I am a transplant, continually adjusting and reorienting to my surroundings. This room is another man's canvas and I am lucky to feel at home here (noted: good taste is good taste).
I thought I had found my next step here, for about a day. The woman renting out the extra room in her Brooklyn two-bedroom was the definition of my definition of a cool roommate and I even liked her dog. I'd planned out the post introducing my new space and everything - her pug would've been in the photos and it would've been so cute you could just throw yourself off a rooftop garden. But, alas, it was not meant to be...but, r
eally...I just want a clean white room where I can light a candle and sleep on a pile of my clothes, is that so much to ask for? I'll let you know if I find out...
Follow me on Instagram @thisfruitsnaps
