Sitting around at the coffee shop in Bellevue, killing time until I need to go to the airport. The sun is out, it’s 65 degrees, a light breeze is keeping the air fresh, and the leaves on the tree outside are wafting in the wind in a general state of being alive. All in all, not a bad final day in Seattle. It was weird this morning, leaving my keys to the house and Mickey’s car on the kitchen table, and realizing — REALLY realizing — that this was most probably the last time I would be in that house. Our house, the house we bought, the house we owned, the house we lived in. I am a sentimentalist, and perhaps that is why leaving has made such an impact. In either case, it’s left a definite weird vibe this morning.
I was thinking about it all on the drive up to town to drop off the rental car. That’s where the title of this post came from. Whether or not others feel I’ve let all the angst and anguish out, I feel like it’s done, and continuing that path would simply lead to [self]destruction. The time for pain has passed; now it is time for healing. It is time to embrace my feelings, to embrace my memories — the good and the bad, and appreciate each and every moment I can for what it is: an experience unutterably unique and inextricably linked to all other moments in my, or anyone’s life.
I’ve been trying to understand the world around me, and how I fit into it, what my role in the Grand Scheme of Things™ is. I still don’t know. I know that I do not wish to be a cog. I do not want the 9 to 5 life. I don’t want the fucking suburbs. I know that if I’m going to get what I want, I need to get out of my own damn way. I have carried myself as far as introspection can go, and now it’s time to burst out of my shell and take the steps that I have been afraid to make. It is time to truly grok myself.