Ropewalker
Somehow I feel that because the seasons keep returning,
people, events and places should come back as well.
intellectually I know it is impossible,
yet I wait for them every time the seasons change.
And in the same manner of disrespecting reality,
I see myself as I have been all those past times, in between seasons.
The freckled me, red glasses, long curly hair on a Spanish beach.
Trying to impress the mischievous italians, knowing they were out of my league.
Crazy me, residing in Italian camorra-territory,
falling for strangers and teaching children how to draw dolphins.
And the childishly excited me, having just received an e-mail offering an internship at the United Nations.
Juggling my bad self-esteem with an overwhelming feeling of pride.
This is the me I always come back to.
I think I am her.
I show up at the VIC cafeteria, as if I belong there.
I return to Vienna, because it is magnificent and I because I miss my friends,
but more than anything I miss who I was there.
Could I still be her?
I know it's foolish,
hoping for the past rather than the future.
But could it not be both?
I know, I know- I am a contrarian.
Am I telling a story?
Telling myself as a story as I go?
- I don't know how else to live.
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