There are simply too many questions that I can't even process questions I've had from days back, let alone months back. I really didn't realize that wanting a life in France meant leaving this one. I know it sounds downright stupid, a silly little girl dreaming but never living. My dream is life but I feel I might live in my dream. I felt. Nah. I wanted to simply fast forward to a French morning. But I got caught up in the fast forwarding, the dreaming, that I forgot, until now, that I have to go. I blame television and Hollywood for making me think I could simply skip the boring. I'm afraid of the transitional moments, the weak and test-of-character moments. I tried tricking myself, packing weeks early, living out of luggage. Ha. Usually, writing it all out calms me, but I don't know... I do know I need this moment. I need this shattering wake up. This is real. I need this moment of weakness, I do. I need to wake up and get there, so I can fall asleep there. Then I know it isn't a dream.
Two days left in California.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Monday, July 22, 2013
Ten days left on the ground
I've packed my things.
And I've re-packed them.
I find it strange the peace it brings
Putting it all away. Crazy as it may seem,
It lets my soul sing and scream.
And now, I just have to learn how to fly.
And I've re-packed them.
I find it strange the peace it brings
Putting it all away. Crazy as it may seem,
It lets my soul sing and scream.
And now, I just have to learn how to fly.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
I'm going to miss this bay
I am equal parts nervous and stoked to leave.
It is time to move my feet, to rattle my cage, to forget my English.
As the fog engulfs the bridge, I'm afraid my mind will fog my memory.
That's the nervous part talking.
The sun soon rises, higher and higher.
And the fog retreats, disappearing into thin air, like Mother Nature's ultimate magic trick.
A catamaran glides under the exposed bridge, and tourists flock for that perfect picture.
The hum of traffic doesn't pollute the blues coming from my headphones.
The ferry building chimes, telling me more than just the hour. Its telling me I can never forget this bay, even if I tried.
I'm going to leave this city.
And love, breath, and walk in another.
That's the stoked part talking.
The City will always be The City.
The bay is my home, my roots firmly rooted.
But its time to see how far they reach, how far my soul goes.
Its time to be mobile.
ps: thanks Tesssica Rabe, for the blog title. more perfect than that picture.
It is time to move my feet, to rattle my cage, to forget my English.
As the fog engulfs the bridge, I'm afraid my mind will fog my memory.
That's the nervous part talking.
The sun soon rises, higher and higher.
And the fog retreats, disappearing into thin air, like Mother Nature's ultimate magic trick.
A catamaran glides under the exposed bridge, and tourists flock for that perfect picture.
The hum of traffic doesn't pollute the blues coming from my headphones.
The ferry building chimes, telling me more than just the hour. Its telling me I can never forget this bay, even if I tried.
I'm going to leave this city.
And love, breath, and walk in another.
That's the stoked part talking.
The City will always be The City.
The bay is my home, my roots firmly rooted.
But its time to see how far they reach, how far my soul goes.
Its time to be mobile.
ps: thanks Tesssica Rabe, for the blog title. more perfect than that picture.
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