What does it mean to feel authentic in a transitory space.
People come here for the purpose of leaving. And expect the town to do the transforming in between. A cartoon line up, enter, emerge different, all you have to do is stand perfectly still.
I feel sad for my mountain home, I figure I’ve been spending too much time being mad at it, and not enough at the amount of abuse it undergoes.
Change me, make me free, me me me.
That ain’t the mountains’ job.
They hold steady as the tides change. I can’t really imagine living somewhere where everything I find comfortable wouldn’t be gone in the blink of two eyes. Where exodus and arrival are the primary winds that shift the direction of our days together.
There will be no fanfare when I leave. I don’t need to know when that is. A quick kiss and goodbye. I grew here, it had nothing to do with the mountains, they just bear witness.
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