Wondering If

I am a writer, and in the end, all writers return to their origins. Although, technically, my beginnings rest in New York City, circumstance has it that I became a Northern transplant to the deep South. I hated it with its antebellum mindset, its heat, the facade of charm over blunt rejection. But I love it, because I grew up there, and the South is both my Heaven and my Hell.

Without it, I would have never lost myself, never forgotten happiness, never known despair to the degree I have, and thus never transformed inot the person I've become. For with the loss of bloss, the ability to find it again is created, and with that, the ability to appreciate it more. I know what's precious. It's only people. Without them I would be nothing and I love them more than anything. Those few people I was lucky to find, so early, in the scheme of things.

Now I have to ask myself what exactly it is I'm doing. Beause I waited my whole life and I'm throwing it all away. Distance takes its toll, so which way will I go from here? It's not just for me, it's the happiness of my friends as well and I don't want to waste away anymore. I want to be filled, only filled, with my friends and their voices and their faces and their tangibility--because I waited for too long not to and there is nothing remotely the same here. Nothing as precious. Nothing as precious as the few of you.

I will not pursue the wind. I'll pursue only what I can grasp and make it more and more real until there is no more reason to dream. I will not pursue the wind.