"It is June. I am tired of being brave." -Anne Sexton

"and
yell as far as I can, I cannot leave this place, for
for me it is the dearest and the worst,
it is life nearest to life which is
life lost: it is my place where
I must stand and fail,
calling attention with tears
to the branches not lofting
boughs into space, to the barren
air that holds the world that was my world"

-A.R. Ammons

How unnerving that the things I thought were most tiresome have turned out to be closest to my heart, or whatever it is that's pumping life inside of me. (This may also be true of people.) I want to absolutely take prisoner the colors and smells and whole atmosphere of this place that is home. Here I am an eager kid, all packed a week early and I'm sitting on my bed distractedly while Spain just quietly lives all around me. And I will hate how I wanted so badly to just get the hell out of this country, I know it. I will miss the walking, talking, living that was this life in Barcelona. But I did hold it against my bones, if nothing else. And now I am letting it go. If you don't bend, you break, you know?