I am in San Francisco. It’s January, but I’m wearing shorts. It feels like a perfect April day in New Jersey. Slightly overcast sky, a breeze but behind the chill is warm air. I am coping. Wavering between finding a new level of happiness and slipping into a familiar melancholy- longing, worrying, aching. Both are scary.
It’s good to be back here, but that sounds so hollow. It’s more that I have no where else to be. My parents no longer live in my childhood home, I don’t have an apartment in Boston, I’m not surrounded by my things in this city. I’m here…. And that pretty much says it all. I’m here.
I have ideas about how I would like my life to be. I see a sunny white kitchen with a nook for a couch. I see myself happily making an omlette, listening to music. Somewhere cozy, warm, ideal. I imagine familiarity. After four months of upheaval, the one thing I would take comfort in is having a space for myself.
Although I am surrounded by friends and friendly people, I am distinctly doing this alone. Trying to reshape my life, but not sure what form it should take yet. There are endless possibilities tree-branching in all directions. This requires making choices, which I’ve never been good at. I can make a rash decision, but a conscious choice is much more difficult. It requires weighing options, and being a real adult about the consequences of my actions. Ah ha, this is what adulthood is.