Morsels

sometimes I catch myself trying to force thoughts into status-sized morsels, and then I remember that's what this is for.

I just want... so many experiences. adventures. destinations. the rearview mirror. I always want to go. to go and be gone.

and some day I may want roots, an anchor, lead feet, down payments...

and some days I want to love somebody, more than I want to be loved, though I refuse to invest the first without affirmation of the latter, and it strikes me today that I'd rather the gypsy adventure than the adventure in love. that one I've tried.

it strikes me today that I dread salesmanship for the same reason any stretch of time without a transition in sight makes my skin feel four sizes too small: fear of rejection.

no one leaves you if you leave first.

unoriginal and straightforward. nothing to dissect and nothing to wonder. but it's there, and it's true.

and the parallel causes me a bit of pain, somewhere southeast of my heart, as though my abdomen maps the country and Georgia throbs with the stagnance of overripe produce.

perhaps tattoos, for me, are a manifestation of this pain.

I hate to run, but I love to run away, and I crave the out-of-breath feeling--the one that arriving in a new place borrows from exercise, the addictive cocktail of discomfort and adrenaline--I crave it every moment it's gone.