The last night in a city is always so strange: I feel like I should feel more than I feel.
I lugged another suitcase of books to FedEx and I watched the fireflies, I inhaled the tang of Lake Michigan, I brushed my hand over the Christmas trees, so disconcerting in the August twilight, and I poked at my feelings, gingerly, because I must be feeling more than this.
Maybe this is why I hate August so much. It’s my birth month, and I’ve never celebrated my birth, but it’s always the month of departure, the time I go away.
My photographs became farewells and my descriptions eulogies. I am not the same person I was when I crawled here and I think some things inside me have begun, perhaps, to heal.
Tomorrow I begin another life, in different places, again, but I feel like it’s a little more active: I’m doing it because I fucking want to do it, instead of because I fucking hated my current status quo and threw a dart to a map, which is effectively how I ended up in Milwaukee.
There are tiny, dangerous, terrifying shreds of hope twisting somewhere inside, and I do not know whether to feed them or set them aflame.