Sometimes I feel like such a lost kid. Most of the time, if I am being honest. I don't really know where I belong. Here? Phoenix doesn't feel right. It will always technically be home, but everywhere else feels like a better fit.
It is ironic that I am writing this today, a rare day I am actually loving Phoenix. It is February 23rd, 64 degrees, and there is literally not one single cloud to be seen in the sky. I just checked. I am sitting on a wooden bench outside of the coffee shop next door to my apartment. A slice of sun is warming my legs and every so often a tiny breeze sweeps by and whips through my hair and I am forgetting for a moment that the unbearable scorching summer is on it's way. But, is good winter weather everything? That is why most people come here and I think, why most people stay.
Or maybe I have just been here too long. I can hardly stand to live in the same house or apartment for more than two years. No wonder living in the same state for almost twenty-eight years has me feeling restless and ready to pack it all up.
I do know that I feel the most at home when I am actually lost (which is a lot, for my sense of direction can usually be described as non-existent. Praise you Google Maps!). Walking down a street I don't know the name of, in some city that doesn't know me? I am hopelessly in love with it.
That next city will be Big Sur, California. Hardly a city, by usual city standards, but oh what a place it seems to be. Jack Kerouac, another lost kid with a head full of words, once made his home here so, I fully expect to sit on the edge of a cliff, stare longingly at the ocean to one side of me and the redwoods to the other, and wish to stay lost forever.