Every day I want to leave this place. Not because I don’t like it, but because even in the brightest seasons, it feels dull and worn and too familiar.
I want to write, even when I’m sick. I want to write as badly as I want to breathe, most nights, and if I don’t get to, it feels like I’m drowning. If I don’t write, I feel the way I do here – like a cold suffocation. I think writing is the thing that grounds me, the thing I miss most when I don’t get to do it.
I don’t have very many bad habits. Sometimes I skip brushing my teeth and fall asleep watching movies. I love sweets. I’m frequently late and perpetually flawed. But I don’t ever want to fill my time with meaningless sex, or drugs, or liquor; the thing I always want to do, when I’m feeling any type of way, is write. If writing could be my job, I’d take the starving artist stereotype any day of the week.
I’m exhausted of being here, and if it were up to me I would be long gone by now. I’d be long gone, and broke. But to me, I don’t see the difference – I’m broke here, anyway, so what’s it matter if there’s a change of scenery or not? I’ll be broke for a while no matter where I go. I wish it were anywhere but here.
It’s a shame, too, because I love it here and I am happy here. Every night, though, I crave more. I can’t count how many times I’ve cried because I want to leave and see things and experience all the human things I was made to experience – failure and loss and elation and adventure and culture.
I yearn for the woods and their trees, green and flourishing at the end of long, extended branches; held down by firm, earthly roots. I want to be like that. I believe the circle of life is meant to go that way – you grow from your roots, you flourish and thrive and take in all the sun and rain, and then you fall, not from lack of success or anything, but simply to nourish the young – you fall to become the roots.
I am not a root yet. I am still a budding leaf, reaching for sun and rain. I will set my roots down one day, but this is not my time to do that. This is my time to be free and let the wind blow me where it will.
I must have known a gypsy as a child, who lit a fire inside me. If I’m driving at night, I have to tell myself to go back home instead of driving for hours and hours into the darkness.
My boyfriend helps this a lot. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be gone, and who knows where. He makes it a whole lot easier to come home. I love him for that. But I’m running thick with red blood that pulses behind my ears at the thought of going somewhere else. The noise behind my ears when I think of going somewhere else without him is pain. The noise I hear when I think of him coming with me, well, it’s a symphony, full with violins and pianos and saxophones and drums and all that jazz.
I want to know the moon from all it’s angles and watch it wane to crescent from every corner of the world. I want to see peoples’ secrets and keep them. I want to hear noises I’ve never heard. I want to be afraid. I want to help a stranger, or a hundred, or if I could, a thousand.
If I left, I know I’d come back. After all, the trees and the night sky in the northeast are what make home, home.
But I want strange, and new. I want familiar when I’m ready for it, and right now the only familiarity I’m ready to keep for my whole life is the warmth of my love next to me.
So let’s go.