A book and a pigeon walk into a bar

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I couldn’t open the window in the first apartment I’ve lived in New York. Everyone close to me is tired of this sentence— not only them, I also wrote about it in my first poetry book that actually feels like a  published diary. Apart from all the good that comes with having your work out there, I can’t help but feel very weird and uncomfortable about people’s imageries of my life. I don’t regret sharing it to the world, but I would definitely do it slightly differently if I knew I was actually going to have readers. I’m not exactly sure how, in fact, I’m giving myself the opportunity to rethink all about it. It’s currently out of stock, and I’m working on the second edition, to make it “more me” even though what scares me the most is that it is already “so me.” Anyway, you can tell things are a bit confused here inside this mind. I  often think about the windows I couldn’t open and that tiny apartment only a couple of blocks from Central Park. Sometimes I imagine myself visiting eighteen-year-old me, trying to find the trick to a not-so-cold or not-so-hot shower, waking up to the noise of the eighty (not exaggerating, I actually counted them many times) pigeons that lived right outside my window. Which was obviously the reason why I couldn’t open any of them. The only time I did, one got inside, and I’m still traumatized. It took me a while to start writing about it and how much impact that apartment and what I’ve experienced there had in my life. I have realized that the same way I feel about my first book is how I feel about my first apartment. It’s like publishing “yoü (and all the other stuff hurting me too)” is that day I opened the window just to try, except this time it’s hundreds of pigeons flying around me and eating my belongings, my feelings, my little world. Except that I can’t call the super to fly it out of there because in my life, I’m ‘it’. I need to learn how to deal with the things I open for the need of fresh air, for expression, to keep breathing. I’ve been thinking.