There are years that ask questions and years that answer.
Zora Neale Hurston
As you all know by now, i have returned to Illinois. I have returned, as if in a dream.
The incredible force it took to get here, that is all foreign to me, so i feel transported here, though indeed I brought myself here in a rented car.
And i bet you thought i would be happy. I bet you expect posts with picutres of my new life with a matching smile, and I may do that with our Halloween photos.
But right now what i know for sure is why i left Illinois in the First Place my dearests!
It was asking the most ridiculous questions. The most scary questions, questions ranging from the practical... how to pay for a baby while in school?. . .to the existential: what in the world am i going to do with my degree?
I opted out of that quiz. I strongly suspected that i was headed nowhere and courting poverty.
Moving back means i suspect otherwise now.
Oh to refuse to ask the questions, to live in San Antonio and play at a life with the most convenient answers, was absolute torture, the most exquisite pain at times.
Oh to move back, to listen to the questions, to ask them, to open myself to some other answer not yet written for me to read, not yet written by my own hand. . .
is not cake in the afternoon, darlings.
I am trying to create a life for myself and i am not creative in that sense... so accustomed to being a passenger, so pleased to let myself be overpowered have i always been that now, now the task of creaing my own way seems severe... severe!
i am now so easily frustrated.