been back home in LA for a few days now, and part of me hates it, absolutely hates it, but some other lunatic creeping inside never wants to leave. being here is a constant forced reassessment of who i am, where i come from, where i'm going, and i'm not sleeping enough to deal with it.
"where i come from" isn't solid enough to stand on and trumpet my laborious ancestry. instead, a rumbling, shifting mountain of sand upon which i am constantly trying to find footing on. one foot sinks into my mother's pain, which crumbles away as soon as i step foot into my own. another step towards figuring out who fled what, whom, only by kicking free a foot already stuck in hardening mud. "where i'm going" never seems good enough. "who i am". why even bother discussing.
and at the same time, the fullness of being around family and friends. the comfort of being around the ones you know well--too well for comfort, even. sensing the attachment growing, and the uncertainty with it.
i'm unsure of which guilt is mine, and overthinking the words coming loose. i hate it. i hate it so much. but i can't really leave, can i?