second guessing

between cities

I wonder if I’m making a mistake. Maybe I wasn’t meant to leave this place, this city where I’ve laid my head for the last five years. I have spent so much time here that it feels like the roads mold to my footsteps, the trees wave at me familiarly. Does the sun not set so wondrously for my enjoyment, do most of my friends not live in this town?

But one’s body always recoils from change, insisting that things should remain the same, that the fear within is justified, that there’s nothing that lies on the other side of it. I sowed the seeds of change, of a new life in another city, and now I must reap everything that comes with it. Before there’s the new city, there’s leaving the old city. Before leaving the old city, there’s packing away all of the years spent there.

I find traces of memories I thought I had lost. Old letters and photos are a jolt, transporting me into earlier lives, earlier loves. There were months spent with people who once felt like the entire world to me, ones I never see anymore, in places I never go anymore. I had forgotten them, if not in totality, then in intensity. The feelings return still. What do I save of these memories? What do I save of the books and clothes accumulated, what do I let fly into the wind?

In my remaining days, I try to see my friends as much as possible and celebrate the time we have left. Who knows when I’ll see them again? We revel in the fun of the moment, playing darts and eating together, screaming and laughing with joy in whatever we do. I have a wonderful time, but deep inside, as if from another room, I hear a faint cry of sorrow. There’s a bitterness among the sweetness, the knowledge that time spent with these people will be rarer in the future, that I’ll be without them so soon.

And who will I be then? What am I if not the reflection of my environment, my people? Who am I when not shaped by the foggy days of the Bay Area? Who am I when not shaped by the jubilation of my roommates, the inquisitive nature of my writing friends, the energy of my musical friends? Where does my confidence go when it’s not backed by the knowledge that they’re nearby, rooting for me, ready to support me if anything goes awry?

I don’t know any of the answers. Maybe I underestimate my strength, maybe the whiplash from all the change makes me overly sentimental. Thankfully, there’s the other side — the reasons I chose to move in the first place.

For the first time in over five years, I will live in the same time zone as my parents; our days will move in parallel once again. Somehow, the difference in time has always felt like the greatest source of distance living so far from them. So often, I want to call them when they’ve gone to sleep, our routines inconsistent enough to make the silences between us last too long. But no longer. Soon, I know I will speak to them more often, feel more connected to them than I have lately, the ones who see me most clearly and selflessly.

And of course, there’s the city. I will move to the biggest city in the country and be overwhelmed with people, culture. In the city, it feels like every emotion (good, bad, etc.) is intensified, applied evenly across the body in ways I’ve never felt in San Francisco, I’ve never felt anywhere else. I will cry at the museums and grin at the jazz clubs and dance at the electronic shows with reckless abandon. I will meet people and re-meet people, and I will be changed into something different. Something better, hopefully. I hope I’m not making a mistake.

---

---

💧 Drops of the Week 💧

• ALBUM - coulou’s cafe trumpet meditations by coulou’s cafe - relaxing

• POEM - “The Bus Ride” by Jenny Johnson - Let me be her afternoon jay