I arrived in New York two days ago. I moved in yesterday. All around me are boxes, stacks of clothing, newspaper-wrapped ceramic. I have no intention of yet unpacking. It's too soon, the wound hasn't healed and the ripping the bandaid off would just allow for infection. All right, that was dramatic, but my point is honest. I love it here. But I'm already missing home. Friends, my house, my family (despite the fact that I will be seeing my parents in a matter of mere minutes).

Unpacking all my belongings in a place that is so far (and so far from being called) home seems wrong at this juncture. I'm waiting for things to settle in. So it's good my roommate (or, being that I live on Broome Street, my Broommate) doesn't move in until Saturday.

I will be certain to post pictures once I buy a camera. It's a beautiful room - hardwood floors, giant windows, tiled bathroom, walk-in closet. I'm excited to live here. But it'll take some getting used to, some familiarty before I'm ready to relinquish the name of home.

Right now, the subway is rumbling by underneath my feet. It's a Monday morning, so the trains come fast and frequent. I think I'm almost used to it now. There's something pleasant about it - it's very romantic, classic New York really.

I don't know what to say. I'm nervous and excited and sad, but most of all I am hopeful.