I haven't been writing much in here out of superstition that writing seems to lend itself to self-deception and delusions when I least need them. I end up looking through metaphors like awkward, heavy goggles.
The truth is I feel at a stand-still. A still life of stone. If I wasn't weighted down I would have stayed in town, but I wanted to float. I felt too much like Macon Dead in Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon ("Mr. Smith's blue silk wings must have left their mark, because when the little boy discovered, at four, the same thing Mr. Smith had learned earlier -- that only birds and airplanes could fly -- he lost all interest in himself." "...he knelt in his room at a window sill and wondered again and again why he had to stay level on the ground").
I'm not sure that this perpetual state of being here (and not any particular place really, but just here) is a veiled sense of maturity, or me in the maturing process, but growing pains are taking place.
Maybe you have to have a variety of small heartbreaks until you can find joy and even flow.
There is possibly something growing inside of me, and quite possibly inverted and upside down, causing me to lose my balance and breath in normal day to day things. I don't quite seem to know what it is, or how to get rid of it. For now, at least.
(I think I'm homesick for a place that's changed too much for me to even recognize it as home (and it scares me to death).)