I wrote this on the back of an airplane barf-bag almost exactly a year ago while I was flying back to Columbus from New Mexico.  I had just visited an old friend, in an old place, revisiting old cherished memories and, like most writers, my only way to process everything was to write. I stashed this paper away in an old notebook where it lived before I  found it this summer during the ceiling debacle. 

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I realized as the plane took, and the mountains disappeared into the distance, that I cry every time I leave. The tears slowly, silently streaming down my face in the pressurized cabin were no different than those on the train ten years earlier. No different that the tears that welled in my eyes in the rusty suburban as we drove away from the cabin.

That tighteningi n my chest is the same. Its painful pressure feels so sharp, as though I am leaving part of myself behind. I thought that I could leave, stay away for a bit, give myself time to acclimate to civilization. To feel freedom among the concrete and the noise. To get lost in the busy chaos. But it was more real; the black and white even further define. The reality is, like most of us, I am a conflicted dichotomy of personalities.

The first feels her adrenalin surge with city lights and strangers. She gets a thrill by sipping cocktails with different men, finding new haunts and memories in a constantly changing cityscape.

…and then there’s the other one. The one who craves the mountains. (Not craves, yearns.) Yearns so deeply for this place. For him. For bluegrass tunes on beautiful worn instruments while the moon silently looks on.

 

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