This life cannot be lived without me. I cannot see it if I'm gone.
So here I am, 34 and a half, hanging in there. Marking time. Would make sense to make a contribution. Taking good old me with this hybrid baggage back home. Find a home for all states of mind. The whole package deal, books and paintings and bubbliness and rainy day thoughtful mind.
I'm still looking.
I'm still looking through the window screen.
Sometimes I think I see its wooden windows and rustic beams. A few rocks on the wall. It's been hanging on my mental wall for so long, that window. In a city near the country. In the country near the city. In a country with plenty of land.
Sometimes I open that screen again, take a quick look from the window. And then run away again.
Today I came by. I saw books and shady corners and natural light. Whitewashed walls, a tranquil happy sort of life where to retire. Take all of it there. Real early. Right now.
I came by the window again and saw a massive wooden door. Somehow I had the key in my pocket. Has it been there for long? It looks warm inside with the wooden floors and the ancient fireplace and many manuscripts growing on the walls, climbing them like vine, aging like good wine.
In my head I came home to me. Just for a while. It's warm here. I'd like to say I'm here to stay. Because this life cannot be lived without me. I cannot see it if I'm gone.
Call it my home for all states of mind.
I'm still looking. And I'm here to stay.
By Ann Marie Simard