It’s weird, I feel like I’m always packing and unpacking, trying to find a place to sleep and gearing up to leave. Living on the road. It’s not the hardest thing I’ve ever done, which as you might imagine is dealing with heartbreak, but rambling from place to place is not for the feint of spirit. Falling off a cliff and recovering is remarkably easy in comparison. That just involves sitting there and having your mom spoon-feed you. Moving from city to city taxes the soul, and I don’t know how much gas is left in the tank.
Everyone knows that I need a home more than anything. It’s hard to explain why it’s been so difficult for me to find. I can’t explain it myself. Maybe I’m scared about something, about permanence, or maybe it’s something deeply rooted in the way I handle things. I know what spurred the wanderlust, but I have no idea why it’s still going on. The last three years have been exhausting. Everything hurts, and I feel I’m no closer to understanding anything than I was before I left in a surreal rush for sandy beaches in the spring of 2009. My friends who have spent the time building towards something are doing fantastic, whereas I have used the years to tear myself apart. I guess the real question is: can I put myself back together?
Time will tell I suppose. Hopefully soon I’ll be returning home, wherever that is. In the meanwhile, goodbye New York, I leave with reservations but I’m not sure why. Goodbye my overworked friends, the bustling streets, the struggle, those who would sooner hand a beggar a cinderblock than a pittance, the schemers, thundering underground trains, and one or two of my favorite people I’ve ever met. As for the latter, I’ll carry you with me.
“You know my love goes with you as your love stays with me, it’s just the way it changes like the shoreline and the sea, but let’s not talk about love or chains, things we can’t untie, your eyes are soft with sorrow—hey that’s no way to say goodbye.”