I’m staring at the cursor go blinkblinkblink.
It is Friday night. A Friday night like any other. Except I sit on my father’s torn up old couch, next to a lounging black cat. The air conditioning isn’t working and it is so muggy for this time of year.
My father’s home is perpetually half-constructed. This is partly because he is in construction by trade, and partly because he is a hopeless dreamer who much prefers imagining, sketching, and hypothesizing to actually living in a reality.
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I haven’t said it too much, because I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I haven’t said it much, because it hurts when the words stop up my throat:
I hate it here.
I hate it here.
This is the last place I ever wanted to be after all the hard work I’ve done. Do you know...? I think this place tells me:
“This is where you came from.
How dare you think you could be
Anything
Else.”
Life here is Not Normal. And it is Not Healthy. And I’ve fallen into this despondency beyond all reasonableness.
This past year has been difficult. Very difficult.
I’m staring at the cursor, because I need to type. I need to do things to prepare. I am going to Washington DC
My mind is in the suburbs but my heart is in the sky. Honestly, darling, I don’t want self-sabotage but old habits die hard.
(Anything else? ... whispers in my ear)
