A new beginning.

Before Felecci died, I knew I would not stay in the apartment we shared.  It represented the hopes and dreams we had together.  Those plans died a long time ago, and for many years I felt that I could not live elsewhere because I didn’t want to start new memories.  I didn’t want to buy a house I would come to hate because she wasn’t there anymore.

I kind of knew I would wind up back in Brooklyn eventually I guess.  I wanted to move back to New York if I wasn’t going to get my opportunity to start a family.  I wanted to give myself every opportunity to find some peace.

My new apartment is nice, but I am here again on a Friday night not being able to figure out what I want to do.  For entertainment, for life.  Whatever.

It’s the odd thing about becoming a widow/er.  It fundamentally changes you.  I don’t like the same things I used to.  It’s as if what I enjoyed doing in my spare time no longer feels interesting or important enough.  But fuck me if I know what is.

I don’t get upset at this part of the process.  But I’d very much like to figure it out so I can find a new hobby.  I am a guy who needs goals.


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