My home town is a place where many were born and raised and never leave. A lot of home towns are that way I hear. They are known as traps where people become stuck.
I gravitate toward the things in my life that are comfortable, yet I long for adventure. What does that say about me, despite the fact that I know I’ve never been good at making up my mind on anything of any real substance.
I didn’t have a childhood in a town. I grew up out in the countryside. This meant fresh air (often tinged with cow waste scent on the air) and only a distant rushing/roaring/humming sound of a highway, other than the two lane one we lived on. Our back yard faced out onto fields and open space.
The trip into town was reserved for grocery shopping and visiting people. Later on that included high school. I liked our little nearby home town. It had everything I could have wanted, or most of it.
I wasn’t living next to a particularly diverse town though. Agriculture surrounded it. I drifted in and out of it. Now I live there.
I like my house in my town, but I may not be living here for many more years. Houses and towns are never a sure thing, nor permanent residence guaranteed therein.
I know those who have left and they don’t regret their decision. Visits are just as good. I travel to the big places, cities that I feel suffocated by, but it’s only to visit, for a short time. Then I slip back into my comfortable routine. Smaller is better, but bigger is where all the action is.
I am never perfectly comfortable, it seems, no matter where I am. Where I’ll end up, I cannot say.
I am tied here, to the memories made with those who have long since left, and my town echoes with their ghostly impressions. I am left there to fill some sort of a void they’ve left behind.
I still don’t know where I fit in.
This has been a
Finish the Sentence Friday
and a last minute, Sunday kind of a FTSF post.