there’s always one more item to be crammed into the suitcase, the confines of which are already bulging with the volume of my chronic tendency to overpack; one more tether tugging me homewards before i’ve even descended the stairs leading both to and from the front door. time, resenting my inability to fulfill its various increments, asks me if i’m making a mistake, here, and i have no answer, much less the right one. i’m not sure i believe in those any more, at least not where my family is concerned. it’s too late to process the weight of my own ambivalence (for fuck’s sake, it’s 1:00 in the morning. give yourself a break before you break yourself).
perhaps when i trickle from bed to floor in five hours i’ll be invigorated by the possibility of The Journey, trivial though the sojourn is in context of our flattened planet, and will skip down the stairs to my scarlet carriage so to sooner clasp adventure by the hand. Portlandia, ho.