Pocketful of dreams

I have always been a dreamer. I remember as a child sitting in my room, concocting elaborate plans for tree-houses that would make the Swiss Family Robinson jealous, penning love stories in numerous notebooks, convincing myself I'd be a renowned novelist by the age of 14, and fantasizing about what it'd be like once I was grown and could make all my dreams come true.
Not only did I imagine that I would have made an excellent Indian princess (after reading the story of Sacagawea) that I would create a vacuum that moved on its own, (as if vacuuming is really that strenuous) that I'd live in a house with swirly stairs and a library (equivalent to being a movie star) but also that one day, this small-town girl would make it to the Big Apple.
I don't quite remember when my infatuation for New York City first came about. If it was after I saw When Harry Met Sally for the first time, which of course made me want more than just to live in New York. It also made me want a best-friend kind of love where he accepted all my eccentricities yet still wanted to marry me. Ah and then there was New York. New York, New York. That beautiful City and all its splendor. The lights, the sidewalks, the street lamps, the street vendors, Central Park, the horse carriages, Saks Fifth Avenue, Tiffanys, the cathedrals, the art gallery's, the museums. I could go on and on. Can't you see? Oh, New York was made for me! I know it... even as I write this, my heart is starting to pound, a sweet staccato.
Every time I hear the words New York, see the taxis flying by in a movie, scan the words as I'm reading a book, it's as if some unseen hand pulls me closer. I can't escape the yearning that has gotten to be an ache. I literally couldn't fall asleep last night because I was so lost in fantasy over what I would do with myself once I lived in my beloved city.
I know I'll make it though. If there's one thing I've become an expert at, it's dreaming. And New York City was built by dreamers. I'm going to fit right in.