I’m in a strange place between awareness and action.  It is a lost place, a lonely place.  All the pieces fell disjointed and ill-fitting, as if all my life I will fight the same battles over and over again.  I feel trapped between all and nothing.  I am sure of nothing, no one—especially myself.  Emotional and psychological limbo.  Who am I? Who do I really have the capacity to be?  Am I fooling myself? 
 
I just about cried at the dinner table tonight— not while eating, but sitting there nonetheless.  And I wanted to just let it all go— just sit there weeping into my hands for no reason at all— release.  There’s fire behind these eyes, yes, but also water.  Cold, salty, pointless water.  Not pointless, I guess, but unfocused.I feel like the shell, like the outline of the person I can be.  But, for once in my life, I don’t know how I’m going to get there.

It’s not the rain, or the greenness.  It’s not the produce or the difference in sites and stores; It’s the sound of seagulls that most reminds me that I’m not in New Mexico any more.  Every once in a while, I’ll hear a flock of seagulls and just feel from head to toe away from the desert.  For all the rain and bounty of the summer, we never heard seagulls.

Eventually memories, good and bad, fade.  If you don’t make new ones, I think you fade with them.