I keep finding myself in the strangest places wondering how the hell I got there. (I feel like I’ve said that before). Such is this whole year. Me, in the backs of near strangers’ cars, gazing out the window at yet another new job, in the bed of a random room I’ll call home for a little while, holding my suitcase like it is all I own, dragging it down pebbled sidewalks, clutching it close like it is a part of myself, entirely. I am so used to going and going, barely stopping to take a breath that I suddenly find myself in sobering moments of clarity — feeling the bumps of a back street car ride, behind the silent glow of a window pane, beneath scratchy sheets and another forgettable ceiling, lugging my whole self to and from and to and from. These flashes of time give way to a momentary panic.
How many skylines can I see and not yet a horizon?
In how many places do I sleep until one of them is home?
I’ve been in transit with no part of myself rooted in the ground for so long that I feel like I’m stuck, infuriatingly, behind a glass wall and no matter how well I perform or how loud I scream or thrash or love or flee, nobody hears me, nobody sees me.
Do you ever feel like you’re on fire?
Do you ever wonder how no one notices it?
I don’t know how to start over in a place where I feel I almost don’t exist, where the people who would see me and understand it all and be in the fire with me are no longer a part of my life or are only half there. Losses like that are worse than any burn — deep, unforgettable.
Is it possible to not want to go back but not want to continue this way, either?
I guess this is the dust before settling. This is the waiting in the thick of it. And I hate waiting.