For the Sake of Frozen Pizza, We Hurry Home

I have walked this specific route most days for the past year. Work or school or store–whatever else tends to be this direction. 

In the heat or otherwise unpleasant weather, it becomes less about the walking, and more about the actually getting there. Home. My house. I don’t know the real difference, or which is more true. 

And home-my house–is a place where I often feel worse than I would if I were still moving. If I were still crossing 28th on Arapaho to get coffee or whatever. 

But. Frozen pizza calls to action my impressive legs. I must go–hasten. My calves need chiseling. The yogurt needs chilling. The store was too busy and I’m nervous. 

As writers, we are obsessed with location–specifically ours. Where we are is also who, and why. Important questions, but very annoying. And God forbid the answer is New York. 

New Yorkers write about New York and I write about my sily, singular head–which is too much of where I am. I think they would say this about the city too though–that it’s too much of where they are.

They’d say it more fondly, though. Like, “New York: I hate you, kiss me.” 

But I get it. If I were in New York, I’d blame that. 

I could blame the city for these feelings and my inability to find it beautiful that I was there, really, at all.

I could thank the city on warm but not hot days. I could smile because of the city when I’m on the phone. I could thank the city for being in love, and though it wasn’t the city’s doing, it’s still nice to say Thank You. 

Instead, though, it’s my silly, singular head.

But see, I’d like to make my pain or joy or numbness or overwhelm external–at least a little. Not so that others can see it, but so I know where it is. 

I don’t blame/thank Boulder, though maybe I should. I’m not overly attached to this place, and would leave without missing it much. What I am attached to though, is these walks, and this stretch of sidewalk, and what goes with that. 

I walk home a lot–especially during those times in the past year and a half when it has felt unsafe to ride the bus. This has been most of the past year and a half. Including now–writing this. 

I don’t know that I have much for you on the topic of where exactly you ought to be. But I find it helpful to not make this also who and why. 

I’ve been thinking about the future, trying to make it real. It feels like fantasy, but isn’t.It really isn’t. There is a future for us. 

I’m living in the future I asked of myself, and I’m some distance from the future I’m now asking. Silly, that. The future is already happening, and will continue to.

What I’m really asking of my future, is only what I’m telling myself now–which is something I learned in New York, actually. Something like: g’head. 

I don’t hate New York, and I don’t hate the head I inhabit or walking home–even on hot days. 

I certainly don’t hate you. 

I love you, wherever you are.

x.