Eventually You End Up Where You Are
Switch bars for beaches, trendy SoHo restaurant for local coffeehouse, subway for car. Replace late nights with early mornings. Hudson River for Pacific Ocean. Skyline for horizon. I could go on. I can always go on.
Once I said nothing has changed in all these months but when I said nothing I really just meant something. I have more freckles now, and because I don’t wear makeup anymore they’re obvious. There are less distracting things for me here, outside of my own head it’s often very quiet. I’m recognizing the conflicts within myself now and I’m finally working through them. I understand the only thing I can do is make peace with myself and everything else comes after. In many ways I’m the best I’ve ever been, so much more put-together than the girl in the coffee shop that day, wondering whether she’d really be able to leave her favorite city in the world.
I’ve found it often takes a while for the appropriate emotional reaction to catch up to me. I’m reckless when things begin, uncaring of what will become of the thing beating inside my chest. One of my friends suggested this is just what happens when you run and run and run. Once you stand still for a while, eventually you end up where you are.
There was a day when I was afraid a year would pass and I’d find myself sitting in the same place, holding the same mug, remembering the day I dreamt up something so big but stayed frozen in a small corner of my life.
Pretty soon, a year will have passed. It will be winter again there, but not here. Not for me.
I was discussing the psychic realm with a clairvoyant a couple of months ago. Imagine what you could be, she said, if you stopped being so troubled by what you have. What if you could honor all your experiences? I’d told her a bit about what happened. She said when two people open a psychic-emotional connection the porthole between them stays open. I said I’m tempted all the time to use it but I’m not sure if that’s fair.
So use it, she said, but don’t pretend you know what’s fair for anyone other than yourself.
I don’t know what is best or right or fair. I ask myself the same question all the time: What are you holding onto? My hands are empty but the story is still there, written in lines across my palms.