I know that I am fearfully and wonderfully made; I've been told this my entire life by a mother who so whole-heartedly believes it. The problem is not that I am fearfully and wonderfully made; the problem is that on any given day I feel volumes more fearful than wonderful.
The terror that I often feel does not come from the usual suspects; I can handle spiders and snakes, cops and robbers, and the occasional public speaking gig. My terror comes from a lack of resolution, it comes from things within that even I have a difficult time reconciling. 
This city, with all of its challenges, joys, and realizations that it has brought over the past year has taught me very little about the person that I was. If anything, it has made me forget. It has swept me away like a moderately pleasant and memory lapsing breeze to a place that is new and fresh (metaphorically), despite its non-metaphorical grit and grime.
I realize now that I have been holding onto a desire that I cannot attain; that I thought I had put away. I secretly had only put it on hiatus, figuring that eventually I could have all my cake, eat it, and not have to suffer any of the calories.
Am I being vague?
Good.
I am still here - right where I was (give or take 75 miles or so).
And I still care so damn much that my heart breaks every time I am reminded of the beauty that was and that could have been; every time I am reminded of the life that seeks joy but has yet to find it.
