My fingers are restless. A familiar sensation runs through them, courses through my veins and my mind races. Words, words, new projects flash past my inner movie screen as I mill about the apartment, in cleaning mode, and a cool September breeze rustles through the Morton street trees and into my room. Books appear in my head and beg to be written, scraps of poetry trickle past and giggle. I write lists, make plans, all the while grateful that I am nowhere else but here. How I fought to get here, how seemingly impossible now to ever want to leave.
I find old notes from Peter about my writing, my heart swells and smiles. I find the business card of my old therapist and get a yearning to write her and say I am here. How I went on and on about this City with her. But then, I went on and on about this City with everyone. Thank god I am here or they would never hear the end of it.
The thing is, if I wasn't here, I have no idea where else I could possibly be. Lost, rambling about in the Great Unknown and all the more confused. Even when it's got me kicked to the curb and mud-sloshed from taxi drivebys, this City gives me a purpose, a lifeline. Sometimes the waters get rough. I have to hold on.
I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it... it was the poetry... I had fallen into a new way of being happy.
S. Plath
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