Miss, Do I Know You?

02 - Monday, September 7

For my entire life, I had known nothing but an existence neatly confined within a single city, a single school, and a cyclical routine that latched one day onto the next and latched me onto whatever route felt most rote. And since young age, by nature, my nerves had been tightly wound. It wasn't a new sensation.

Life had long not been as obliging as my childhood days, for as the child turned to teen and the teen to adult, change was unpreventable and had brought me to that floor, surveying all the things I had deemed most essential when leaving home, strewn haphazardly across my room from bags I had neglected to unpack. Inconsistency was everywhere, and with it came slight excitement and the more pervasive and all-too-familiar uncertainty. It wasn't a mere sleepover at a friend's apartment anymore.

Everything simultaneously seemed overwhelming and trivial, and it was conflicting, because of course part of me was thrilled at the thought of escaping from the old ways and stuffy certainties and the pessimism that clouded my hometown, yet leaving everything behind was not the simple decision it was made out to be in those movies where a person throws their life into a suitcase, runs out the door, and into the sunshine where everything sorts itself out. It was tempting to retreat into that bleak spot where I instinctively began to go.

But fortune dealt its hand with a touch of gentleness. The baggage of my life was light, reflecting the long-held sense of alienation from my own existence. Having spent a portion of recent years living out of a car, simplicity had become second nature. Now, the piles around me were largely made up of mere fabrics and sentimental items I had gathered from the house before leaving, like my parents' belongings and photo albums long shielded from my gaze by the accumulated reluctance of dwelling on the past.

Daybreak minutes melted away with me stowing those little fragments of my existence away. Not a lot changed. I was still that same frustrated person who had been so eager to hit the road and start over without the baggage of my uncle. It was home now, and it felt comfortable enough. No plans, not a bunch of friends, no job, no extracurriculars, no sports teams to join, no invitations to parties, and certainly no more miserable people to take care of anymore. What now?

My world had been pared down to an abundance of time and space I still found it hard to take in. I loved being by myself, I probably always would, but most of the time, I felt strangely empty. When not even the sound of my own breath seemed to carry, that's when the dark always found me. We were old friends, the night and I, and just like many before it, this one was not meant for me. As the first rays of sun shyly caressed the slumbering horizon, instead of futilely chasing sleep, I prepared breakfast for us and chose to step outside where my footsteps traced unknown and familiar paths through the awakening streets.

From the first, I had liked Darby. It was a beautiful place, and although the circumstances that had led me to move there were less than ideal, I could see the potential and imagine it turning into something good; I spent most of my days walking those pavements, watching the world go by with no real goals or plans, just listening, gazing at the stars or clouds. I had learned to find comfort in the small things, like in that soft smell of dew-freckled soil that hit me and brought my mind to the pond in the park that I had frequented during a week of lunch breaks. 

Splinters of sunlight tinted its placid surface with such a beautiful glow that I couldn't resist. On a whim, I shucked off my shoes, gathered the hem of my dress, surrendered my bare feet to the cool waters licking at my ankles, and made my seat upon the earthen edge under the dappled shade of a tree. In a cozy curl, with my hands clasping my knees and my head bowed low, I let my mind roam. Some thoughts bore the familiar, others—a tug-of-war between nostalgia and aching limbs, the scent of nature and the buzzing of the city, the promises of new and the comfort of the old. All soon replaced with the sweet smell of the grass, the singing of the birds in the trees, and the gentle giggle of the water. Mixed in it all was a much-needed sense of peace because, for the first time in years that seemed a lifetime long, my days somewhat managed to evade the relentless bustle I had grown so weary of.