Marry me, Bury me

I'm not
running from you.

I took a weekend off and ran out West, where mountains replace skyscrapers and stars come out at night. There isn't much to say because such is life out here; it is calm, it is what it always was. You drive to places and try to find something meaningful to do when you arrive there. The young cities are neatly arranged on their grids, as the young, white families are neatly arranged on theirs. The sun shines relentlessly, and the desert land goes from winter to summer in the course of every day. It is reliable, dependable, home. Pleasant to be around, hardly impossible to leave. There is always a more Real Life in the wings, waiting patiently for you to come back and get back to what you were doing.

And still, suddenly I found myself driving home from a friend, through swerving canyons, across pitch black fields, guided by the steady blue light of a full moon, and confused. How far I was from the City. How little I could ascertain how that felt. So alone out on those back roads and feeling so safe, taken care of by the great expanses of Utah. The place you grew up, the nest where you were coddled, always feels like home. But home is a place to which you can never go back. There is no place for you here, the snow-tipped peaks whispered, as I rushed past, and I knew they were right.

It's just.. I don't know where else I should be going.

The more endless my possibilities, the less certain I am of which road to choose. I stumble along helplessly as the days amass. I plan trips and escape a little while longer. Never making promises I can't keep. Never making promises at all. It's the same old me from yesterday, you end up with tomorrow. In my heart, I am happy. Turns out, that doesn't mean one damned thing.