She’s the one who wants to be always going places. Not for the places so much as the in-between spaces. She has a delusional conviction about being able to truly exist only in the in-between. I’m sick of in-between, I want a solid here or there. Any restless discomfort I might experience is her doing. I know of her from scattered messages, disguised as small coincidences that grow accumulate until I agree to move somewhere new.
I feel equally displaced by small town familiarity and big city anonymity. She shares these anxieties, but in a manic way that turns them into symptoms of a disorder. Every new place makes a new past, and every particular past, dozens of them now, are my loss and her gain. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion. Or to her.
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