A post of little eloquence.
It is February's fault. I am at loose ends, split ends, and split fingernails.
I quit a job I loved in spite of hating it. And we left our first little home in a neighborhood we never hated, but did not love quite enough. Winter arrived late. Taking the bus for the first time in six months brought it back very clearly--this city is not something I want to have to experience stripped of a sense of belonging to certain streets and shops. My ideal I is a bicycle commuter, a barista, a student, a local writer, a hipster--and all tied to our old neighborhood. You could say we've moved to a white trash area.
The difference is all of 30 blocks, so why do I hardly recognize myself? I've bought more clothes in the past two weeks than I did in the past year preceding them. I work in a different cafe, living off cereal, and I'm sure I've gained five pounds. I haven't written a word or taken a picture or sewn a stitch. But I have gotten my nipples pierced--is this something you'd rather not hear? It's hot though. Today I am dressed all in black. (I just want to be Lisbeth Salander.)
I feel a disconnect. If I've learned anything of myself, it's that I need a home.