I have a dilemma every time I sit down to write here. I would love for this page to be like a journal for me. To spill my soul, to have honest conversations with myself and come to wonderful revelations and understandings about my ever-changing twenties. And when the urge comes to write, I suddenly remember the small detail that this blog, however unpopular and unpublicized, is in fact public. That anyone can read what is created here. That small detail stops me, or at least hinders me, censors me.
But slowly, I am trying to be more honest here. And in a way I hope that helps me to be more open in the real world around me. So I have to share this fact: that I am lonely in this busy city. Not all the time. Because I am busy. My busyness serves as a distraction. But then there are days when I have nothing planned, there's nothing on the schedule and I have a moment to catch up with myself. It's in those moments that I am sometimes choked by loneliness. I don't even know what it is I am missing. If it's my family, my friends, my dog. For sure I am happy here. For sure I like my life here, or at least the direction in which it is heading. But sometimes I feel as though there is an old, American, country soul deep in me that longs for the mountains and the smells of my home. My home which is far away, and those feelings seem to also be far from reach inside me as well. As if I can't get in touch with who I am, or who I was. Or that the tranquility and peace I need on those quiet days can only come when I am close to my roots. That's the best way I can explain the feeling.