|subway people // via andrew|
I'm not sure that I really actually know how I feel about New York.
Because I'm excited. Or more scared (crazy how similar the sensations are) as if I'm pretty sure I have wings back there, but not entirely and what if once I jump I realize that I never actually had wings. Or maybe I did once, but I haven't used them since the summer I haphazardly threw myself onto a plane and ended up in Italy and suddenly a nanny caring for four crazy Italian children, and now the wings are all shriveled up and will only open on one side and send me careening and flipping in a twisty spiral down down down. Because I imagine that's what would happen if only one wing opened. But I'm not much good at science. So correct me if I'm wrong.
I feel that moving across the country shouldn't be as startling and scary as it is. And I've been avoiding that feeling. And instead getting inexplicably upset over the possibility of leaving behind my teapot and the oddly-shaped vase with a dead tree branch stuck in it that Christian once glazed with some sort of clear coating after a visit to Sundance when I said I really wanted one of those cool branch jewelry trees. Yes he really is that sweet. And speaking of Christian, he would want you to know that he never actually told me I had to leave those things behind. I've just been panicking.
I think what I'm really afraid to leave behind are the mountains and the sweet air and the knowledge that just up the highway, there's a little house and inside it there's a little family that I belong to and could potentially run to (although the need has really never arised). And just this place. My childhood. The lake. My grandparents (who will actually be in England anyways).
In the end, do these feelings even need explanation? I guess I feel better when I try to understand myself. Although on paper, everything makes both more and less sense. New York, for heavens sake! Isn't that the dream? I suppose it never was my dream. And maybe that's the real problem.