Wallet.

Got my wallet back, finally. It was found in the 'shitty' part of town. Coincidentally, the same borough I grew up in.

Why does it seem that all roads lead back to that place?

At times, I feel like I will turn a corner and find myself mysteriously transported back to the old neighbourhood, like all of my efforts at growing and soaring well beyond its confines were in vain. I suppose in adolescence we all have that detachment fantasy, wherein those who grew up in some state of poverty or misery (and even those who suckle a golden teat, as well, I suppose) conspire against fate to ‘make it’ and leave that den of teen inequity, that barren schoolyard behind, never to return. I feel, though, sometimes, the further away I travel, the closer I get, like I am circumnavigating my life in such exactitude that the closing coordinates are similar in nature to those of the initial onset.

So far, I do not see my footprints leading to the horizon, I see no signs of crossing my own path. Hm. What happens if I catch up to myself? I know I should be happy to get my 'identity' back... but, why there? Why must my 'Identity' wind up in the last place I want it to be associated with? Mind you, that was my initial thought, second was 'I am happy to get it back' (and I am.)

I certainly hope that it is merely my fears playing out in order to maintain my focus and not a realization. If my lot is to be transported back to the crippling confines of my hometown, to sit ineffectual on some lopsided porch, jealous of the horizon, cursing its rejection of me, well then, end it now and spare me the effort.

Won’t stop me from pushing on, though. Better to try to live the dream than to stand idle before a nightmare.