That It's All In Your Head

The whole thing is seamless. You're at your gate within minutes of leaving the house, it seems. Your eye doctor makes jokes until you are on a first name basis and the neighbor across the street waves every time you leave, every time you return. Life in the country is so endearing, and you have to work hard not to boil it down to its exoticized idylls, bottle it up as the next great romcom for thirsty urbanites. You sleep like the world has ended, awake heavy and disoriented. Miss the noise of second avenue, the reassurance that you are yet alive. What's in New York? he asks with incredulous eyes, but you know it doesn't matter what you answer. 

I cried driving through the canyon the other night. Before all the snow, when the mountains were dark and towering. That the world can be so beautiful, so close to where you are. That there is a moment when all is still. 

 

Soon I'll have all the answers, I told them. 

But I'm only ever kidding myself.