Epilogue

I no longer dream about young ironworkers. It is no longer in my father’s house, however large and impressive, where I dream of living. I am not wearing flannel pajama bottoms or eating cereal. I am full grown and fully clothed. I am in a log cabin in the woods with fiery leaves and slats of the autumn sun streaking through the windows. Or I am in a modern flat overlooking the Eiffel Tower. Or I am in a cramped and miniscule studio with one good view in the middle of a bustling city. But the common thread, the recurring image, is a computer screen, or a laptop, or a vintage typewriter, or an empty journal, and ink pen or pencil or quill. I do not know where I am going to eventually plant my wandering feet. I no longer feel the need to cast my dream with a strong, tall, attractive man. I entertain supporting roles and extras, but the life that I picture for myself is no longer dominated by the presence (and more often than not, absence) of a male lead. I do not need him. I want my own home. I am seeking a life that allows me to continue to dream, and put those dreams down on paper. I am looking for a community and culture that inspires the kinds of stories I lived growing up, moving from place to place, and being made aware of the diversity and energy in each person I meet and city I visit. The strings of my soul, the products of my writing, are ready to wrap around a city, a people, and a set of memories. I am ready to become part of the world that I live in, and my writing reflect the beauty of the spaces and people I see every day. I want my words to be distinctive and true like the striking reality of what I see and experience. My writing will be like our childhood game of stringing a tree into a house, marrying the twine into the essence of the tree’s roots so that it is as much a part of its character as the earth that grounds it.

Familiar

I live alone now, again. I rise when I want, no one has to know how late I sleep. I can turn on music when my first alarm goes off and then drift in the music through several snoozes. It doesn't bother anyone. I can go out and get a cup of coffee and only get the one for myself. I can go anywhere in the apartment and I can make the bed because it was only me that was sleeping there. It is so much easier to be kept clean. I remember all of this. This freedom, this order, this way of moving through the day without speaking or being with anyone other than my own thoughts. I am more productive. I am lonely.

What Now?

The apartment is all mine now. It is such a sad thing, I know it will be an ok thing, then a good thing, then an annoying thing because it is so expensive for just little ol' me. But I made this decision and even though I cannot remember why - I made it. The grief and pain is blinding but I am that stupid kind of mature person that knows this was for the best, for now. Automatically and because that is just how my brain works, I have begun thinking of things I want to do now that I don't have a television or another person in this place constantly providing me with distractions, both good and bad. I have already done a great many things that will allow me the room to breath and think. I have rearranged and I have cleaned. I have thrown so many things away and placed other things in places that will serve my purposes only. I really don't have very many THINGS. Once the couch is out of my possession I will most likely be able to box it all up and put it in the back of my car. And what freedom, what great detachment exists in the knowledge that I can drive myself away and have only the things that I truly need. I want to run more and eat better. Of course I do - I wouldn't be me if I didn't see this as yet another opportunity to perfect my body. I also look at this as an opportunity to write and read more. No more TV (not that it has stopped me from having Netflix or DVDs playing constantly on my laptops). I have plans to buy a bouquet of flowers tomorrow. As well as devote an hour - just one - to polishing my thesis. I'm going to start slow so that I don't overwhelm myself with the pressure to DO IT ALL and fast. I want to read again. I always felt so guilty reading when he was here and no, not guilt, I just didn't want to do something that we couldn't share. I loved watching TV with him because we were interactive, we would talk about it, hold hands and learn together. But now, I have neither the TV or him so I have my books and my writing to fully devote to because there is nothing else. And it should be that way. I should, during this time, these next three months plus a year should be all about the reading and writing.