Written October 2015
I always feel better when I’m on this train, watching the trees and the fields flash by my window. It takes me out of anything I was obsessing over, and I get lost daydreaming about where I’m going to – most of the time, it’s to my parent’s house and my dog and the gigantic mahogany bed my Grandma gave me that I sleep the deepest in. I was thinking of buying a Metro North pass and spending this winter working at the restaurant then go home every three weeks or so to write and read a lot and watch a lot of TV with my mom.
The city can be kind of lonely and restless when you are trying to figure job and money things out. Last fall, I moved away from Seattle and spent a season doing nothing in my parent’s house. I vaguely miss that luxurious laziness of when my whole life was just getting dressed and made up, and going to go drink and eat and spend the day smoking rollies outside in nature. I caught up with old friends and walked on a frozen lake for the first time. I felt lovesick the entire time. It wasn’t a real life because I wasn’t doing anything, or moving forward. I was cradled monotonously in an interim between moves that lasted entirely too long. It kind of felt like I was putting on a play. That was part of the fun of it, I think. When I moved to New York, everything moved very quickly and fell into place into some semblance of an adult life. I would never go back to that lazy interim, though, and my life is so much better than it was then. But sometimes I have to go back home, when I am homesick in an unidentifiable way, just to remind myself that my real life isn’t there.