Monologue Moving to A New City
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I want a better life. I always have.
Growing up in a city where nobody sleeps, where survival is louder than dreams, I learned early that wanting more meant leaving. This city hardly supports you unless you’re already winning, and I was tired of waiting for permission to breathe. So I changed my location—because sometimes growth requires distance.
I see myself in a penthouse, sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows, a painting of me hanging in my bedroom—not out of vanity, but proof. Proof that I made it out. Proof that I chose myself.
I want a love that doesn’t require begging. A love where my needs aren’t “too much” and my desires don’t feel like landmines. I don’t want to tiptoe around what I want. I want to be met where I stand, not chased when I’m halfway gone.
I wanted freedom—the kind that lets me work from home, create on my own terms, and reclaim my time. I was tired of retail. Tired of fast food. Tired of customers projecting their bad days onto my patience. Tired of clocking in just to clock out of my life.
I wanted the world in tune with my books.
I wanted my words to travel farther than I ever could, to sit on nightstands, in airports, in quiet rooms where someone feels seen because of something I wrote. I didn’t just want success—I wanted alignment.
So I’m moving.
Not just to a new city, but into the life I’ve been quietly building in my head all along.
