and now for something a little different (e.e. cummings style)

it feels insane to want to write to myself, after so long. after i’ve spent half of a year writing for others.
i always wonder why, when i’m here, i cannot write. i suppose it must be that it’s too much–too much in remembering. too much in feeling sorry for myself. too much in regret. too much in wanting to just “expose what’s best–never the worst.”
and i’ve never felt the worst here. not really. i’ve thought i have, of course–but it was only the aftermath that i had to deal with. and maybe that always feels like the worst.
i sat outside just now, smoking and staring out the screened-in patio and listening to the bluejays and watching the squirrels, and i thought, “i’m not going back to the city again. it’s ok. i’m moving from one sense of nature to another.” and i felt ok with it. i want to move back to a city though– i long for that sense of — not “community” — but something. that sense of feeling like you are something. even when you feel like nothing.
in new york, i felt like something and nothing every day.
here, i have to face myself every day. i get up, drink coffee, and write. and if i were writing my dreams or my thoughts or my nightmares even–then maybe i’d feel some comfort. instead i’m living through others. and i wouldn’t trade it for the world–i love this job. i love this life. i love living lost in other people’s worlds.
but i face leaving, and it stands in my face and as i reach out for it, it pulls away like a shy girl. i want to touch it, feel the wind against me as i leave here–leave all the sad memories and the good ones behind. feel the wind as i drive alone across deserts and mountain ranges. want to feel it with my cat sitting in my lap, smoking camels out the window like jack kerouac, even though he died too young.
i long to see my cousin and her world, and i hope it will be my world too. but i’m unsure. i’m unsure of anything. i had my world in louisiana, and that’s the last i remember it. i had my world on stage. and that’s where love came out. sometimes. i’ve had my world here, in books and in memories. and i want another one. i want a world that i can grasp in my fingers. a world that i can touch outside of pages. a world i can relate to in words and feelings and thought.
i wonder if i’ll find it. there, or anywhere.
i hope i can.