(Diving back into a travel memoir about Europe, sorting sloppy, water-smeared journal pages and scribbled paper scraps, I stumbled on this entry. A sentiment repeated time and again, in reference to places and people, and parts of myself I find only in certain situations. Gushing silent emotion on a small plane, from Madrid to Grand Canary, as the sun rises and barren volcanic islands pop out of windy seas and puffy clouds. This time leaving a lover, a country, a chapter.)
I’m pretty sure I still love the feeling of flying, of loving, of living high.
But how can my heart take all this leaving?
One of these days I’m gonna stay.
Or you’re gonna come.
Somehow, because even as this heart grows out, it grows weary.
Sure, I am grateful, utterly amazed.
For the beautiful souls, the places.
And each smile gets filed to flash through my slide show.
But I awake with a start, on this bus or plane,
To realize I am leaving again.
And not sure which is a memory and which is a dream.
And how I love this life, the flying, the highs, but I just don’t know how much longer it can survive, this heart of mine.
The loving and leaving.
Sure it is beautiful, sure I am lucky, but someday I might want something to stick.
How can this body hold all these sensations,
These sights, smells, caresses, streets.
I am a bulging bag, a tight zipper, a buzzing brain.
But I must leave, mustn’t I?
And I must defiantly carry on. Flying, feeling, loving
I did not lie to let you in, you felt right in every way.
But to stay…that would be a lie, your life is not mine.
I must pull myself in close, forehead to forehead, remember this is my own blessed journey.
Remember to carry on.
Ah, but your passion, your smiles…