I am from a regular town full of regular people. People satisfied with purely living life. Sometimes I yearn for such simple desires as a two car garage, a dog, a big television.
I am not special, yet feel unfulfilled. I’m a wannabe gypsy, a transient who fears the permanence of real life; of matrimony, contracts, escrow.
But I have roots. Roots that are deep and don’t want to be exposed. Covered in the dirt of childhood, of old friends, of young and aging family members alike. I cannot just shake them off and plant somewhere new.
I fear looking back with disappointment, but it spares my tail from being between my legs again. Still I search for the courage. A matter of closed eyes, trust games, and gambles.
I take stock of where I’m from knowing I will inevitably leave again. Though I am inexorably tied to its people, its weather, its street names.
But when I leave, I learn that where I’m from is where everyone else is from too.