With Feeling

The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. 
The second best time is now.

The apartment floor is a mess of newly arrived baubles, torn out of a storage in the little town, where the entire contents of my former life lie in wait, for the day when they will be needed, when I will be whole and well put-together. These few trinkets, instruments, nostalgic fuzz, I couldn't help but bring them here, begin to build a new life and keep them as my foundation. They make me feel happy.

Perhaps that's why this decision was so easy.

It's time to go home.

And it's a long way to go, lacked funds nip at my heels and demand to know what fairy tale it is I am trying to entertain, reality rears its ugly head and that's only a mirror it's holding, anyways. No matter. I dance around the apartment debris, forget to eat, to sleep, listen to that sad song again and laugh because it cannot bring me down from the ceiling, not tonight. The solution is to always keep an airplane ticket in your back pocket. Perhaps I had to get still enough to remember how to run. When you finish the sentence it seems ridiculous it should've taken you so long to decipher it.

New York, honey, I'm coming for you.
You were always the One, after all.