It’s peaceful in my new studio. It’s an hour before I’ll start work for my job and the light that filters in through my window has a blue tint. Colbie the cat is sitting beside me on my new bedspread. It has yellow leaves, a vintage palm print. It looks like something in one of the pictures I’ve seen of Hawaii from when my dad and my grandma were young.

I want to write something today to remember the feeling of new-ness that is imbued in this space.

I think we, as a society, coven this feeling too much; that we constantly chase newness as opposed to finding the beauty in what we already have. We want new phones, new clothes, new lovers, new careers. We want that initial spark of the unknown. That excitement.

I think that this can be a dangerous mindset.

However, though I try to be conscious of that, I am not immune to the fleeting wonderment of newness. And I want to feel it in all its glory today, here, now.

Most likely, when I’m finished writing this, I’ll look up the scientific reason why we respond to newness in this way. What happens with our neurons and nervous system and dopamine. But for now, I want to focus on my own experience of this feeling—and to appreciate it.

Someday, this studio will feel old. Living alone will feel ordinary. The sounds of the city (my neighbor coughing downstairs, cars rushing past outside) will no longer have the charm of “city living” and will instead just be annoying.

But right now… 

Right now, waking up to my own space is magical. I still want to make my bed every day; I fold and put away each shirt and sweater as they are cleaned. In my bathroom, I run my hand along the newly gifted shower curtain. It has little outlines of cats and is something that could only exist in a place I own—alone.

I love seeing my books displayed in stacks hidden throughout the studio. I love knowing that no one has a key but me. I love knowing that the items inside are things that I love.

And I love that the neighborhood is new too. Tonight I’ll go out to dinner at the fancy restaurant just a block away where bearded chefs in utilitarian aprons will create a vegetarian menu and serve it with wine. Just across the street and down the stairs is a boba tea shop and a whisky store. There are bars and restaurants and other places that the city has always offered but are now closer because I live in the heart of it. I love the thrill of it all.

And I will continue to make this space my own. And I will dare to imagine that someone will see this studio one day and feel like they know me just a little bit more.

And I think that would be nice.

So I wanted to document this moment in time. This moment that felt so exhilarating—ripe with opportunity —and every task felt exciting and stimulating. I know it will be gone soon, so I embrace it now, here, to remember it.