(no subject)
I want to go some place new. I want to do something exciting. I want an adventure so bad it makes me sick. I need a change. Of pace, of place, of attitude and time. The old tricks aren’t working any more. I need a vacation. I’ve grown so exhausted of this routine. I’ve been dreaming of trying a new dream on for size. Throwing myself head first into a new life. How can I know I won’t love doing something if I’ve never done it before? Maybe I should join the circus. Maybe I should apply to culinary school. Perfect the art of dicing onions until my eyes swell shut. Maybe I should paint houses for a living. Maybe I should get a factory job. Working with my hands to create something every day could be satisfying. I could take up gardening. Or needlepoint. Or yoga. I find myself missing the idea of Kentucky. The wildness it had to offer. I want space and trees and mountains. More than just parks and bike paths and row upon row upon row of corn field. I want to bask in the vastness and raw beauty of nature until I eventually grow bored of it, as well. I don’t think I’ll ever shake this restlessness. Constantly trading in greenery for skyscrapers and back again. The din of traffic and city lights burning just as bright at 2 AM as the morning sun at 10. In a big city there’s always some one else awake. You don’t have to see it firsthand to know there this communal underbelly of loneliness among your fellow jaded youths. It’s in the way the barista hands you your cup of coffee. The way the art student stabs out his cigarette on the pavement as you pass by. The way the book store clerk asks if you need help finding anything. So that makes the day to day a little more bearable. Which is not to say that I am entirely unhappy. Just that, I’m not happy. Maybe I should just buy a car, abandon everything, and and live out of it. Drive across the country. See every national landmark one by one. Survive off of gas station granola bars and the kindness of others. Maybe I’d fall in love with a roaming sad eyed musician with a voice like Merle Haggard and he’d sing me to sleep. Or a chain smoking waitress with a sailor mouth fouler than my own that could dismantle me with her stare. We could keep each others kisses like dirty secrets pushed up against back alley brick walls. We could have sex on the dry cracked leather seats of my station wagon or propped up on the pledge scented bureau of a cheap motel room. I could see the desert in Arizona. Experience this dry heat I’ve always heard of. I could go swimming in the hot springs of Colorado. Why stop at the border? I could go to Canada. I could learn french. Change my name to Colette. Try on a different identity. Any one else but myself. Any life but my own. I read this piece once on my generation. About how our elders view us as entitled. Like we expect the world to be handed to us on a silver platter. But this is what our parents told us. You can do anything you want. You can see the world. You can be successful. Dream big. The world is your oyster. Everyone is a winner. We are the trophy kids. I don’t feel entitled. I feel disappointed. I would resent my parents if I didn’t respect them so much. I worry some days that nothing will ever satisfy me the way I think it should. No town, no job, no relationship with ever be good enough. I hope not. So, I keep moving. Another town. Another job. Another relationship. Maybe the next one will fit, will stick. I’m so tired of feeling homesick.