I listen to the National on the blue line in this chaotic city that smells constantly of corn and screaming at the top of your lungs, and I cry in front of strangers. The next morning I will wake up dehydrated, dizzy and in a brand new, months-old ache. I tell myself its because of this, the crying in front of eyes that don’t understand my words, but I am lying as much as we both were in that aiport.
I do not know how to begin to be sad about something I did not yet understand. Everyone knows we fall in love most with ideas of people, the sound of jazz in the morning and using words that mean splitting open in the evenings. I cannot quite fathom what it is I am feeling the loss of. An idea cannot be so strong, and yet it is. I catch a thought in my mind that says this crack is bigger than the one that came across in a dirty apartment in a city more than 10 hours flight from here. That can’t possibly be true. How quickly our mind rewrites the things we thought we’d carry with us.
We speak about where he’ll go, and what I’ll write and the interrupted anticipation splits us down the middle. He hardens, and I plead. Because isn’t that always the way with this peach-ripened heart? I do not yet know how to let go of what tries to leave me, and it is an exhausting thing to carry. I am continents away from the first time, and yet, I am always this way.
So I cry on a seat so slippery I can’t remain upright, and I read Kafka and my body gives up, making me light-headed, although not hearted. I will be escorted home from the only place here that still makes me know I am doing the right thing. and I will watch the afternoon fade. I will not apologize for considering chasing an idea across the world and leaving this behind.
But, I am here and I am happy, after all. Even as I forget to drink enough water, and listen to his jazz and miss my bus change at the orange arch, I will keep choosing this. Even when I almost don’t, I know there is no other way this could end. After all, haven’t I been telling anyone that listens that no one ever changes who they are at all?