NYC TRAVEL LOG: Into the Archives


Some unpublished travel logs from the archives. Booked a flight to NYC, and am looking forward to being back in the city.

Burning Bylines Over City Skylines

Life can’t be fixed with a kiss-and-make-up,
When there’s nothing but a growing distance between us,
Sun setting over the city skyline,
Sparking the notion that this is my time.
Sunset igniting in my veins,
Intoxicated by the flood of possibility and pain.

Maybe sending a message in a bottle,
Is just another excuse to drink to our sorrows.
When all life can promise is a new tomorrow,
Fast lane, catch a train-
My ship was set to sail,
Yours was content to remain in the bay.

The beginning of an end,
This winter chill, just an air of indifference,
In a life which distributes one-way tickets,
No turning back-
You and I burned those bridges-
Took a torch to the porch,
We had someday planned to sit in.

For what are promises but gas in a car’s tank,
Fueling the miles driven down the highway,
Until one day we realize,
We’ve been headed the wrong way-
Deafening silence, no words left to say.

Now I’m in the city again,
But this time, I know my way-
Standing braver, stronger,
This is a new day-

The end.

Now for the beginning…

x Natasha Overin

Chelsea, NYC

I’ve never been one for the grandeur of the big city, never the type to marvel at skyscrapers, at metaphorical pinnacles of success, touching the clouds. Yet everywhere I look, into the eyes of every stranger and onto the corner of every street, I see beauty.

A gentle rainfall showers the streets of Manhattan. The peak of the Empire State Building is draped by tendrils of fog, the bustle of the city muted by the rhythmic patter of rainfall.

Eclectic brick buildings sit together like books crammed haphazardly on a bookshelf. Potted plants are stacked on gray stoops, vines push their way through cracks in the dampened sidewalk, taxis speed down the street, searching for those whom had not anticipated the impending storm. The air is still, gentle.

In a city of constant motion, there is a sense of waiting- a notion of stillness. The thought that, perhaps, the big city isn’t so big after all. That it too, breathes, filling in the seemingly empty spaces with subtle complexities.

Each neighborhood is a new conversation, a distinct flavor.

Much like a large party, with each corner of the room holding its own private conversations and intimate affairs.

Today, on this rainy Sunday morning, a rare moment of solitude in the city that never sleeps, I long to discover it all.

Central Park, NYC

It is unseasonably warm in Manhattan tonight. The air is humid and my black leather jacket clings to my frame. I am perched, cross-legged, overlooking the city skyline atop a rock in Central Park, notebook in my lap: observing.

For the past few days I’ve been trying to piece together whether I could find a home within this city (as well as a home in one of its university graduate programs). Sunlight filters through the trees, their leaves transforming to brilliant gold hues, a promise of impending change.

I too, can sense a gravitational shift in the trajectory of life, as New York’s energy breathes an indisputable vitality into my frame.

The notion of being “an outsider” has shifted since my first journey to the city several years ago, and I am uncertain of whether this is a matter of comfort with my surroundings or comfort within myself. Afterall, it is curious, how places can be mirrors. 

As a rather broad generalization, New Yorkers are different than Californians. They are less warm, more taciturn than their West Coast counterparts. In California, one might bump into you on a busy street and exclaim, “Dude!” In New York? “Fuck you.”

Yet after weeks spent in the city I have begun to see a quiet authenticity in this bluntness, this reservation. My introverted nature feels at home in a place where one can embrace solitude whilst being surrounded by millions of people. Alone, but never lonely. My extroverted nature craves a fresh story to be told each moment, a different person to explore around every corner. New York delivers.

The city transforms my voice into something serious, contemplative, fast-paced and just a touch cynical. An innate authenticy.

If home is a place, my body is bound to Los Angeles. If home is a feeling, my soul is bound to New York.

New York? New York?

An unanswered question.


Thanks for reading!

xx. Natasha Overin


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