I couldn't be myself yesterday. I was lying awake at 3 am trying to make sense of the pushing and pulling I felt while my brother's wife made hints at how we weren't ready for a move. There are two of you now, she reminded me. (Which is a hell of a lot better than three?) I don't really know what she meant, except that I might be rushing into this. For the last 2 years. Sending dozens of resumes and reaching out to the masses who would receive me with open arms. I tried to explain that I'm not as naive as it seems. The loss of Zoe's weekend visits with her dad is literally the least of my concerns. She'll be surrounded by dads and brothers and grandpas of the highest quality. Not to mention she'll have her mom available (hopefully) more often. And mountains. And peace. Sometimes it feels like I've never had the chance to be in charge. And that's what drives me more than anything. Too many people meddling and telling me how to do shit.
And then Michael brought my bike back. Seeking closure, seeking a clean break and last wishes of good luck. Acting like a plastic fake-smiling version of himself. Hints that he would like to pick up and leave too, but reassurance that soon he'll move to the city where he always wanted to be. Maybe a different city. He wanted me to know he wouldn't miss me when he gets where he's going.
I'm in here, my spirit is alive whether I'm wanted or missed or forgotten entirely. It craves the sunlight and magnetic energy of a mountain range, the electricity of others feeding on that sweet air. It just feels like it's been slain, pruned and excised from the family garden. Perhaps I was not a native species after all, I might have always belonged somewhere else. I thrived for a time, but conditions are no longer ideal and I'm withering here.
If I stay here, trouble will find me.
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