Sometimes I feel like I'm no longer brave.

I look across the street from my apartment and see a rooftop apartment that a friend used to live in when I moved in here 6 years ago. She packed up and moved out of New York with her fiance. They moved to this little art town out West. While out there planning a wedding, they realized that they loved each other but weren't in love anymore. They agreed to split, she took a chance with another man, fell in love, quickly married and now has a child.

And I still live here.

I think of that girl as brave; she packed it up and headed West with her man, realized it wasn't right, split and found what she wanted. End Goal.

I used to be brave. Never brave with love like my friend, but brave with curiousity and fearlessness. I would run around with rockstars to underground clubs and shovel cane up my nose. I visited the dirty little secrets that littered the bowels of this beastly city and knew the codes to get in, trolling them in the wee hours of the morning.

I was always up for something, preferably naughty.

I don't do that anymore, I feel lame sometimes when I think about it.

I wonder if I've lost my sense of adventure, and that's not necessarily a bad thing, considering my definition of adventure was a bit more advanced than the average bird.

And then I think of the things I've done over the last 4 months - the chances I took in a different way, the new people I've met, I see that I'm brave.

I'm just brave in a different way now.

You're pretty, Baby. You're pretty in your own way."

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