full circle
We've been travelling for a while now, from Boston to DC to New York, places where the East Coast cold melds into the warmth from mostly artificial, mostly real bodies, fleshing out the cities that mean everything to us. Now that we've parked ourselves deep in the suburbs of South San Francisco, I am all tired and still wanderlusting over anything but the mall and, of course, sad because everyone seems to be going places, while I'm always leaving them.
The trouble is that I possess the immovable inability to see my life as the beautiful thing that it is on its own. What I can only see are the mounds of other lives stacked on top of mine - smarter, prettier, more outgoing, more likable, easier - and it's hard not to feel that wherever I am, I'm still waiting for some place to come home to.
But I'm nothing different. I know that everyone's even just a little bit lonely and that kind of solidarity makes us all even just a little less lonely.
And so I fill myself up until I get bored with moping, until my ignorance sinks in. And so the cycle staggers on.