August in a truck

In the evenings in Queens, the lights from the apartments outside of my window reveal to me the many different lives that I could have lived. On Sunday evenings especially, I loathe the jarring transition into the Monday morning sprawl. A lot of people say that this part of Queens – Long Island City – is not really a part of the borough. It’s a zone of luxurious buildings that are soullessly built to reach the zenith of the sky. I could entertain the idea that I ended up here because I sold out my soul long ago, or that the old guard of locals have flocked to new terrain with honest and sincere landscape. But who am I to say anything but? I merely have followed the stars some years ago.

As expected, by the time the clock reaches 10 or so, I dread the thought of getting back on the train in the midst of the summer heat. I revolt at the feeling of being fully drenched by the time I sit at my desk. But for now, I focus my attention to a different place outside of the window. I don’t care about the buildings. I don’t care about the invisible voices attempting to tell me that I don’t deserve to be here. I look to the sky.

The sky reveals to me a Waxing Gibbous. In a few days, it’s going to be full. I think about what it means to be full, to be content with life, and to wonder what else is left for me. It wasn’t always like this of course. Back when I was 17, I wondered when I would ever get to a place where I could be okay with the life around me. The sky is a deep blue on a summer night in Queens, not so much different from when I was living back in Alaska, a scared teenager looking to calm my nerves.

It was in July of 2009 when I lay down in the bed of my friend’s truck covered with the travel topper. My friend G. and S. are there in the dark shadows. We are somewhere out north, a patch of land hidden from the remains of civilization. In Alaska, you could find places to hide and disappear. But with friends, it was almost as if you were floating in the cosmos in search of the path forward. G. passed me the piece. I took it, and I breathed in the embers of Americana. I looked up at the sky with the stars. I searched for a piece of me. It was almost the summer going into junior year, and I was still nervously wondering if I had it in me to figure out where in the world I belonged.

Before I put down the blinds to my windows at night, I think about how I used to be a lost kid. I think about how desperate he was to get out of town. But I send him compassion, even if it was not clear enough for him to see that that night in July he was seeing something so bright and so apparent. In the stars was his future – a path forward.