On the road, far away

I’m not sure this is heartbreak. I don’t know what this is. I don’t think about him. I’m not the person that thinks about him. I’m not the person that reminds me of the kind of person that likes him and wants his approval. I’m not the same person that moved to his city or shopped in the vintage stores or listened to oldies wondering if this is the kind of girl he would want. Wondering if I was unique enough to be his muse. I’m a different person now that travels and works in a different country and wears different clothes and listens to music he wouldn’t like. I think different thoughts.

But the person I am now remembers the person I used to be, the person that felt an emotion that I cannot describe, it felt like drowning, it felt like quicksand whenever I tried to escape.

Sometimes I feel stronger now that I’m far from the person I used to be, but not really stronger, just smarter. But not really smarter, just cleverer. Like I’ve found a shortcut away from my heart.

It’s not that I feel pain, but the distance from my mental life, from this new version of me, feels so far away. The distance hurts. The old me felt real and this new version of me doesn’t feel real yet. I think I might be a kite that was set loose and I desperately try to find my center of gravity again, but it’s gone. All I can do I to tell myself it’s not important to worry about anything at all, it’s not important to try to be happy or to be sad, that it’s not important to reach for the center anymore, that it only matters where I’m going, and then I feel okay.

I’ve been on the road for a few days, wandering around Florida’s marshland and manufactured cities on a rental car. I like being on the road. When going from A to B, I like the feeling that I’m never going to be in A again, and looking forward to B with promise, ignoring the fact that I won’t be in B forever either. It’s a strange lifestyle that some people like and some don’t. When the people who don’t like it want me to explain, it’s hard. They want to know the pros and cons of moving to B. But there are always an equal amount of pros and cons, as with every decision if you try to analyze it ‘objectively.’ The real reason has nothing to do with if it will be better or worse. It might actually be worse. Those are consequences I will deal with. I move because I can, because it’s meaningful, because it’s what I am, because somewhere between A and B is home. It’s like the anticipation of moving into a new house. The anticipation is closer to the idea of home than the home. In some ways I’m just too much of a homebody, I’m too attached to the idea of home to let only one home embody it. I need the real home, the home that is so perfect that it is the whole world, because that is the only place I feel like I truly belong. I want to belong everywhere or not at all.

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