No Going Home

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If I were a painter I would have painted last night blue. When I think about it in the coming months, I will be walking the streets in the dark and crying on corners and curbs with my knees drawn to my chest. I have built walls and moats between us and there is no reasoning in why the hearts shifts, or why the birds call, or why I cannot come home.

I have never lived in a space in which what I want and what I need are so incompatible. My wants shift by the hour, but one thing remains true. I want to go home, and I don’t know how to let myself.

I think when two people are bound to one another they can sometimes cut off the circulation with the ties that bind and leave one another windless. Who are we when we stop trying, and does everyone eventually stop trying to find their way home?

I do not want to shop for my own houseplants. Everything makes me cry. When I wake up, I don’t remember where I am. I have no center.

My mother gives me a book that addresses this, the idea that if you place another person at your center you will never be balanced, because how can you be when they control the equilibrium. I wonder if I have ever been my own center.

I can sense there is a lot for me to learn right now but I do not know how open the doors for it. I am seeped like sun tea in my own misgivings, and I wouldn’t wish anyone to live like this. There is nothing brave in breaking your own heart, she was wrong about this. There is only silence, and second-guessing, and long walks around the block.

I am not sure I will ever be okay.

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