Letting Go, or a Jumble of Feelings on Leaving Home.

      For the majority of my conscious life, I have lived in one city. Not a city I ever imagined I would love, nor a city I thought I would miss. But these things creep up on you, you complain and complain about the smallness, the stillness, the boredom, until one day you leave and that small town is no longer your angst, but that little hole in your heart that you are missing.

                                    
      There is constantly a part of me that wishes to stay, to give up on the confusion and difficulty of finding my place in a new city and settle for the restaurants I know I love and the people I know love me. And to be completely honest, I reason with myself daily for fear of never belonging anywhere else again. Fear that I will never again feel as at ease anywhere else as I do in this old house with the adobe walls and cracked wooden floors, or driving the roads late at night with my music loud and my mind empty, because here, I always know where I'm going.

                                         
      Lately, I feel as though I've been suspended in mid-air, aimlessly wandering through my own life as though I'm not living it, but observing it. I tell myself the emotions I should be feeling, or the things I should be doing, but they never come. Instead I sit in my childhood home, empty and full of echoes, wishing I could make sense of my thoughts or the way I feel inside.

                                        
    Leaving for school last year, that seemed manageable. I was prepared to go forth and discover new territories, create a new place for myself. The knowledge that I'd always be able to go back to where I grew up and see my parents eating dinner in our dining room or reading in their bedroom, that steadied me. Now that they're moving, I feel as though I have no real place of comfort.

                                        
    The phrase "Going Home" has lost its meaning. I'm not quite sure where I'm going.