Musings

Another day within the white walls. The quiet of solitude, of loud music and skies that, if not endless, are at least miles wider than your West Village sighs. Technology fusses and I am disconnected from all but the physical world. Satmar families in suddenly appropriate wool clothing as the cold wind arrives from the sea, pen on paper, coffee slowly going cold.

Nowhere to run now, the apartment too light not to see the various facts swim around your head. That there never was an answer to be found, never a soft pillow to rest your head forever. She says you were raised by gypsies, and you know she has a point. Those two suitcases stuffed into your closet will be perpetually ready, willing. Perhaps New York is home, perhaps it always will be. But home is a place you remember fondly, with a sad heart. Home is a place you leave.

Opportunities arise, my fingers tingle with adventure. I long to throw it all out, take my boots, and run far into the jungle. I was raised in the jungle, raised to learn how endlessly large this planet, how many stories we have to tell, and I long to return to that life where you wake up in discomfort and brace the elements. I idealize the noble savage, yearn to follow in his footsteps. There is no such thing as a vacation, every trip brings a camera, a script, an opportunity for something Bigger than your own recuperation.

Outside the windows, dead leaves flutter and I think, at first, they are butterflies. Autumn winds are here. I stood so close to your skin, how warm it was; how hard to focus on conversation. New York, is our honeymoon over? I miss you. I love you.

I always leave the ones I love.