Somewhere outside of Salt Lake City, you tell him that I-80 runs clear to the East Coast and not twelve hours later there you are, driving your little SAAB to the end of its line, before the lanes merge into I-95 and onto the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. I have walked clear across this country I have seen its wonders and I have stayed. Don't forget that when you doubt your ability to commit to what you love, don't forget that when you think your roots run shallow and unreliable.
Returning to the office after a week in outer space is a bizarre act of contortion. My mind is all words, my body is all song, billable hours seem about as relevant as raincoats in the desert, why would I spend my time in front of this machine when the cherry trees are in bloom outside the window?
I keep thinking my spring itch is part of the mental illnesses that wrap themselves along my insides, that my constant running is a symptom of a bone break that never set properly, but what if it isn't? What if this is just another way to be, is just one life like any other and the best thing you can do is not to fight it, but to live it?
It's so novel a concept I can't quite grasp it. What if you are fine the way you are, and you just have to find the right stove for your pot to cook?
What if you are fine the way you are?
May delights in the periphery.
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