Does it matter where I end up, or only that I’m going somewhere?
Somewhere else. Away. Changing. Leaving.
I’m not one to hold onto the past, I say. But letting go is hard.
If only I was a tourist, I say, but I’ve never wanted to be one. I want a real life, solid, working, not a make-believe-for-a-week one. A point and a purpose. Does this make sense? I am rambling. In words. In miles. I might lose you. Leave you behind. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to fill your place. Your space in my life. But I will fill it with new life, novel adventures, fresh views. Can we choose what we carry with us?
Change. Only a blind man does not look back from time to time. I can look, but try not to touch. Sometimes, I’ve learned, we also must let go of that rope. It’s binding. Holding us down when it’s time to fly free.
But, dang, it’s scary flying among thin clouds. I’m scared. Permanence, grounding. These sound so attractive. A friend once told me she was firmly planted with her feet in the clouds. I understand and now feel the same. It’s not a new feeling. I’ve been here before. A familiar place. At once recognizable and so uncertain.
When do we touch down, stay down? Or maybe is there more to life that settling down and staying.
Something about leaving… What is it that draws us onward?