I am in a period of life transition. I can either go one way, completely another way, or stay the same way. I'd like to go the "completely another" way, will probably go one way, and am terrified of staying the same way. The attractiveness of the first two is the verb "go." The frightening aspect of the latter is the word "stay."
I'm without ties now, truly. And shouldn't be feeling fear. The "go" of my soul is rearing its beautiful head. All I see in my future is train trips and open road. Books and paper and chai tea from all over the country. Steinbeck's path and Vincent Millay's prompts.
I find myself writing lists of quotes on Goodreads, sharing them on Facebook so I remember. Liking the photos of fellow vagabonds. They're doing it. They've made it happen. Drafted out maps, logged miles.
The most beautiful sight is a map with squiggly lines to signify rivers. V shaped lines to reveal mountains. How much more will be revealed in the air, by the sea, through the land. Long lines drifting in and out of North American landscape.
Settling in cities for one day or maybe two, exploring the anonymity of the rural. The frenzy of the urban. Like in Ireland, where money was no matter and travel was the only goal and writing was a side effect.
This go around writing is the goal. Trains are the vessel. Self the end result. Whitman, Thoreau, Steinbeck, Millay, White, Cantwell, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Kerouac, beats, poets, essayists, artists my fellow travelers.
I am not afraid to call myself a writer. I am a writer. I am not afraid to call myself a vagabond. I am a vagabond. I am not ashamed to call myself a flaneur. I am a flaneur.
I am a Leo. A lover. Confident. Self-assured. Shy then loud-sometimes. Funny but slow to entertain. Laugher. Crier, but only when I'm comfortable. Self -seeker. Introvert. Daughter, sister.
I think this is all bullshit, wish I could write more maturely, wish I didn't always feel 15.
My therapist asks, "How old do you feel right now?" every time I explain a stressor of my daily life. At the beginning of therapy, I'd say "eight." Then it was 10. Now I'm 13. Making progress. Perhaps by the end of analysis I'll have caught up. I'll have turned 29, right as 30 rolls around.
In the front of my mind, I know this is all first world problems. But they're happening. To me. And they matter. I wish they didn't, but they do and when I'm fifty, maybe I'll feel thirty. Maybe the transition will be easier. Or less difficult to process.