Driving through town this afternoon, I realized just how poorly I fit in here. This town is made for reminiscing. It's made for lazy Sunday afternoons on the patio with family, drinking lemonade and raising children. It's almost as if this place is straight out of a Thorton Wilder play. The pace of life here is devastatingly slow. Nothing happens here. Nothing, besides the birth of the first spring tulip, grows here. It's a place to wither and die. And I need to get out of here.

It's not that I'm anti-family. I love my little makeshift family more than anything. I just want to spend my life in a place with something, anything, is happening. I want to be able to go out to the art museum with my daughter, just because. I want to eat Cuban food one day and Thai food the next. I want to be able to walk around downtown with the understanding that I'll always find something new to do and someone new to meet. I hate feeling stagnant and slow. Perhaps that's why all this emphasis on the gym lately. At least, for an hour, I can forget that I'm going nowhere fast. Although, the irony is large.

We're leaving on a new journey at the end of this summer. These will be my last hot, humid days here. I don't know where we're going yet, but I'll embrace it as the life-saving change it will be. Sure, I'll miss my friends and my family, but I've missed them before. They'll come see me, I'll come see them. Even my mom has told me that she doesn't want to die here. I know I don't.

On an unrelated note, I was cleaning my bedroom when I found my trunk at the foot of the bed unlocked. Making sure everything was there, I opened it and was overwhelmed with the smell. It's been so long that I opened it that the smell of leather, lube, metal, duct tape and nylon rope attacked my sensory organs. It smelled like heaven. At least, what my version of heaven would smell like. I'll have to open that trunk more often, even if most of it's inhabitants have migrated to Bear's apartment.

This entry was posted by Mellie, on Wednesday, April 12, 2006.