I left NYC four years ago, to the day. It all makes sense when I consider the timing of other things - my son's age, mine, the calendar that was never on the wall - but it makes no sense when I consider the emotional trajectory of it. Almost everything I hoped to have had worked here in Sonoma has failed long ago, though apparently not long enough. I would question why I stay if there were not such an obvious answer: the popsicle monster.
The failure of the previous relationship still hangs over me, somehow, a curse that moves with the power of unconscious force, motivated by unquestioned habit. Little things, and some not so little, plaguing me if only because they seem to get to my life and end up causing trouble even before I do. I arrive at the point of recognition, just after it might have helped. A volunteer fireman hosing down cold cinders, ash. The sound of sirens in the distance moving elsewhere. It is a mystery shrouded in nothing but clues.
Time creates and then distorts everything, destroying much. We are allowed to exist on neither side of it for very long; one side can hardly be reasoned with, the other will not be halted.
It is best to live in the moment, the only place that's remotely safe.
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