The final of four journal entries in our collection of entries from N. Diego Belfort.
January 2, 2018
Dear Diary,
Happy New Year. What a holiday season. It was pretty intense. I got to see everyone, but nobody knows. I never did tell Tomas. I just lied for like a week straight to my family. I mean, I've done that before, but I wasn't hiding a breakup or an ill-advised romance, or losing a job or failing an exam or acing one for that matter. This felt different. I needed some time away, so I left on like the 30th. I never did go back. I left my bag at my parents' place.
I only poofed twice today. I did so much walking instead. I'm tired, but I needed to clear my head. First thing I did after getting out of bed was the three S's, only I didn't shave. I dressed up, including my fave shoes, red.
I made my way to Brooklyn. I've been to Manhattan a few times and wanted to branch out a bit. Brooklyn seemed interesting. It's so much bigger than you ever thought. Than I ever thought. I mean, yea, I knew New York City was big, but I also knew it was broken up into burroughs. I figured they all were super compact like Manhattan. Nope.
I poofed to the Lower East Side, again. I then hopped the F train and got off downtown Brooklyn. Jay street. Then I walked. I watched the people around me. I eyed the buildings that lined the streets, desperately looking for breathing room between them. Again, nope. Everything in rows.
I found myself gawking a bit at some of the shops, at a lot of the flower stalls. So many flowers. I noticed people mainly dress in three categories: the nines, trendy af or sweats. Now the sweats don't look grubby at all mind you, but they are sweats nonetheless. I feel justified now any time I want to wear some Adidas outfit.
I noticed New Yorkers wear it on their face. Being a New Yorker. There's a certain measure of hardness in their face. A concentration on where they are going. They don't look around to take anything in, maybe they did that already and are now seasoned. Maybe the newness of this place wore off and now they only focus on the grind.
The grind. If you can make it here, and all that. Speaking of, I need a job. It's been weeks since the bakery. I should also call them and explain? Well, lie. I'm not telling them why.
I made it to Prospect Park. All the signs posted up reminded me how the park was mine. Mine. I tried to kick everyone out, but they all just laughed it off. I walked the paths, stretched out across the grass, listened in as people chatted, ogled loving parents chasing their children about, and affectionate pet owners doting on their furry little creatures. It has this giant Arc dedicated to something from 1861. I didn't look it up.
The time was good. I got to see this gradient of life from the super trendy and flashy downtown area to some of the neighborhoods that stretched out from Flatbush Ave, to the ornate library at the park entrance. In some cities you can see where the money ends as you walk away from the city center, not so much on this stretch, which was cool.
I don't know how much clarity I got from it all. I don't know how much resolve I was able to temper. I am uncertain about tomorrow. I don't have anything tomorrow, which is a little scary. The world is literally my oyster and I don't know what to do or where to go or how to get there. Do I fly on an airplane and get a stamp at passport control, or just pop in and make my way about? Could I even handle the length of a flight from here to say, Asia? Can I even afford it?
Here I am, sitting at a coffee shop, letting the steam from the piping hot coffee brush against the scruff on my face. I'm trying hard not to listen to the conversations around me. Trying instead to look inward and see what could be.
I kinda wish this happened ten years ago or ten years from now. As a kid I would have just gone everywhere I could. Being in my mid thirties, I like to think I would have a better handle on life and would adjust to the newness and wierdness of all of this.
Here I am now. Best to just try and make things work.
Dear reader, how did it all turn out? How did I do? Do I fuck it all up? Have you heard of me?
I wonder who you are. I think about you all the time. Maybe you're my grandson or granddaughter. You're still wide eyed and bushy tailed. You have the whole world ahead of you. Also, if any of this diary is news to you, then no, sorry sweetie, it doesn't run in the family. I never told you about what I could do to spare you. To spare me. I have your gramma. Grandma. Nana. Abuela. What do you call her, I wonder. You know me as Welo or Welito. I always wanted to call my grandfather that. But they chose Gramma and Granpa. They corrected me when I used Spanish. I wont correct you, hon. No I wont.
Wait, maybe you're my son or daughter. We know each other, right? We have a relationship built on trust? Did I tell you? If I didn't, please know it's not because I didn't trust you with the information, I just didn't trust myself to keep you safe from it. As of right now, I don't fully know the ramifications of what I can do. Sometimes weird things happen and I don't understand them. Sometimes when I am poofing around things are different and every now and then, super rarely, I see someone. I think it's a version of me. I'm seeing myself before a poof. It gives me chills every time, like maybe one day I could find a way to talk to a different version of myself. Also, what does that mean for me? Am I jumping in and out of their world? Is each poof pushing deeper down a rabbit hole.
My love, I know this is a lot of questions. Also, if we are not related, then who are you? You can still be my love. You found me. I kept this diary hidden for so long, but you discovered it. I'm proud of you. I know this is a lot to take in. I know I am asking you a lot of questions and I don't seem to be giving you many answers. Keep reading my love, as I find them, I will give them to you. You will learn everything I do, I promise.
The pain of today
is the balm of tomorrow
is yesterdays gift