you're running in circles, darling

When I was a little girl, and the hibernating world was just waking up from icy winter, I would open my window at night, turn off the lights and stare out into the darkness. There was something about that suspended moment, in which the cool air in my room and the shiny black of night enveloped me and I felt like I knew myself, as I was, unmarred by the room enclosing me or the scary world that was outside. I was that window frame. Things flowed through and around me, but nothing could change who or what I was. Those are some of my best memories. I always wrote about them in my childhood diaries, and now, on a similar night, I feel compelled to blog about it.

Those moments of sitting and staring out of my window are the first memories that I have of the weather in any way affecting my mood. I had no idea what affect even meant then, but I knew that I was cleansed of it. The air, like a good friend should, blew away the metaphorical dirt clouding my window pane. Yet, in those moments, I was always filled with a longing I could not name. I feel that now, perhaps as a flashback emotion, but likely because I am reminded of how trapped I have always felt. Now, more than ever, every decision I make will entirely change the course of my life, of the history of me. Every place that I've touched seems to try to call me back to it, but something is telling me to leave, to migrate, to displace myself, my identity, my sense of self, to rupture who I am and to create myself anew. I've been seduced by it before, and I cannot say that I regret it. This is why the open window calls to me, a portal to another unfamiliar place that can never be what I have, but may fulfill my desire to finally be content.

It seems that to do that I have to let go. I am not sure that I am ready to let go. Letting go means abandoning a lot of things that I care about deeply to move to another place. Letting go also means abandoning things that plague my soul and make me unhappy. The worst part is that I cannot guarantee that the new place or surroundings or people will be any better than this one. I have never been satisfied with my environment, especially when I've spent a lot of time in one place. It is as if my ancestral ties to diaspora and displacement are repeating themselves over and over in my life. Do I stay here, and keep looking out of this window until it becomes unbearably hot and I am once again shut inside, or do I leave in search of other liminal spaces to inhabit? Can I reinvent this place by inserting new personalities and events into it? What is a place, anyway?

Some fellow old city dwellers of mine, who seem to understand me more than I do myself:
The Good Life: Rest Your Head
The Good Life: So Let Go


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