I’m back to my roots — the towering trees that darken the windy roads through lush farmland, the musty manure smell of local mushroom farms — everything is familiar, but it’s not home.
I’m not sure where I feel home. Anymore, our actual home feels like a cage, a large, old and dusty box that is bursting. So many things familiar, but no uniqueness or personality. I could be in California, or Nebraska, or Florida; and there will be a Wal-Mart and Target and shopping centers with things you’ll find everywhere. There is no identity, nothing personal — but at least it’s not offensive.
I feel dull. Stuck Deaf. Content. Bored. Waiting. Shunned.
Parenthood can be very redundant, but at the very least the subconscious knowledge that this will last remains. There is no walking away. The storyline continues, and if you’re wise, you are apart of the plot.
Friendship, on the other hand, takes effort, but few keep trying. I’m tried of the sacrifice and wonder how worth it it really is. Does anyone know how to be a true friend? I’m beginning think in today’s world, it’s near impossible.
The pressures to work, the pressure to be accepted by this or that group, the need of things, want to being known, the unfortunate circumstances of distance — friendships are neither deep nor meaningful, and when they achieve that, maintaining it takes more work than many can provide.
So I wait. Pray. Become acclimated once again to asking questions and not being heard. To not knowing, and not being known. Listening to bloviated words of assurance, tag-lines about commitment and love, slick campaigns to lull depth into the shallow.