Am I Home Yet?

I finally left New York, after all the talk. The talk that went on inside and outside of my head. It’s been a month, and a few days. I sold my apartment one month ago today, I spent a week with my parents, I drove over fifteen hundred miles, to Austin. To Texas. To a new life. Is that exciting? I don’t know anybody here, but I’ve always been alone so this should be easy. But alone at twenty-two is different then thirty-four, because I found friends that became family, and then I left them, just like we leave family. Can you ever go home again? Where is home? 

To Be Me

There’s a scratch above my forehead, that bled slightly. It will heal in a day or two, how did it happen? I do not know. But maybe the wound will stay open long enough for real change to occur. Most moments in life pass and you don’t realize that this was a moment. This is it. Someone’s probably said that before, but as I sit here typing, my legs shaking, I know this moment right now, will change my life. I said I wanted to change, because whether you like it or not change happens. And maybe if I say it, I will have control over it. I am torn between my heart and head, and I still don’t know which will win over. 

I wake up every morning at peace, for about a minute nothing worries me. There is a bit of light that seeps through my curtains and hits my ceiling. I sometimes hear a honking, commuters on their way to someplace.  Where am I on my way too?

I slept last night, thanks to some cold medicine, and now almost feel brand new. Everything is new lately, with my move. I haven’t moved, but it’s all I can talk about. Is there anything else to talk about? Everyone wants something brand new. When something is new, it’s usually in perfect condition. It’s shiny, representing a fresh start. As adults, we are broken, from the reality of what life is. And just starting seems overwhelming, for as adults, we are usually somewhere in the middle. The middle of success, failure, fatigue. 

I am actually writing a lot, the most I have in a really long time. It’s why I came to New York, and now I’m leaving, having not accomplished anything I set out too. That might always be an open wound for me. Maybe that’s why I am writing? To prove that I still can. I couldn’t ever say I was a writer, because I was never published. But I write, in the dark, trying to locate that area that lives, somewhere between my heart and my head. And the war that goes on between the two, everyday, in an attempt to be me.

It's In The Kiss

I’ve been on three dates, and from a gay mobile application. That’s not suppose to bring you dates. I am leaving in six weeks. I should not be dating, but as I leave, I find myself with the opportunity to date. When I was here, feet firmly planted, dating seemed obsolete. It was sex, or nothing. Not my choice, but just what the city dictates. My romance in New York was more with the city, then any man. And now there is a man, and it seems cruel. But he kisses me, and my stomach flips.. This is when I run, but I finished my marathon last November and my legs are tired.

His apartment in the village is just three hundred square feet. His bed sits just a foot or so away from where the kitchen is, and above his bed, is a homemade closet. The exposed brick is painted white. A sectional couch, which he loves, because at six-foot-two he can stretch out without hesitation, takes up almost the entirety of the living area. There are pictures of his life, scattered everywhere. It’s been his home for twelve years, and it feels like a home. I feel closer to him, being there, even without asking questions. A home is really an extension of the person, whether it’s decorated or not. I told him I was leaving, I asked if he would come visit me. He said he would, but for the first time, things are moving slowly, at the pace that I’m good for. But I don’t have time for slow, I have a month left. I stopped trying to create a memory, and just started being. He kissed me before I left, and I let my head fall into his chest and hugged him. 

We met up again, more than a week later, when the cold invited itself back into our lives. He didn’t kiss me back when I said hello, and at the end of the night, we stood on his stoop and he told me he liked me. But obviously, this couldn’t go further. It wouldn’t be smart. That’s what he said, and my left brain agreed with him. But my right brain said something else. I told him I liked him too, we made a promise to see each other before I go. He said he’d visit me, but then made a list of all the things he had to before he could make that visit. It was a long list. I felt like maybe it was his excuse, maybe he didn’t like me. But we saw each other for a month, so he must of. People just don’t like me back that often, and even less often do I like them. So the bad stuff is easier to believe. I never heard from him again after that night.

The Middle

I slept last night, thanks to some cold medicine, and now almost feel brand new. Everything is new lately, with my move. I haven’t moved, but it’s all I can talk about. Is there anything else to talk about? Everyone wants something brand new. When something is new, it’s usually in perfect condition. It’s shiny, representing a fresh start. As adults, we are broken, from the reality of what life is. And just starting seems overwhelming, for as adults, we are usually somewhere in the middle. The middle of success, failure, fatigue. 

Untethered

All my life I’ve been tethered to something, a family, a home, a city, a dream. As I move away from New York, for the first time in my life I am completely untethered. And I am scared, but also relieved. In the years when it was difficult to find a friend, I reveled in my anonymity. I enjoyed my anonymity because with it came the possibility of reinvention, for the first time in my life I don’t want to reinvent myself. I like who I am. Imagine that.

Storage

I cleaned out my storage locker yesterday. I found a trunk given to me when I graduated high school, almost sixteen years ago. In it, was my life from eighteen to twenty-four. I packed everything I wanted to remember in it, when I moved from my first apartment in New York to my current one, where I’ve now lived a decade. I’m moving. Did I tell you that? And so, now I sit on this cold, cement floor, in the middle of winter, sitting with my thoughts, goals and failures that I had or have.

Jazz

I forgot what a good kiss was. I am always looking back, so you would think I would find the time to remember. But, I haven’t had many. And then on Thursday, a kiss, that excited me. It made me want to have sex. But before the sex, it started with a dance. He played jazz, some Latin salsa. He took me by the arm and we danced in his living room. It’s the first time I ever danced with someone, like that. I have two right feet, so finding my rhythm took a few minutes. But I found it, he thought I was playing him at first. But then he looked into my blue eyes, and realized I am not a player. But he was, I never heard from him again after that night.