Eagle Rising 2

Part 1: Eagle Rising.

It’s been a year since I moved downtown. So many things have changed, including myself, and yet so many things have stayed the same.

There are still cardboard boxes in the spare bedroom of my loft. There are frameless posters — orphans — that have yet to decorate the off-white walls of my living room. The furniture of both bedrooms is sparse and essentials-only; I’ve had little time to make this place look like a home. But boy does it feel like one.

Memories litter the air and memoirs are left behind like the unmistakable scent of a dried and empty wine glass. The notes of Saracco and Akiyoshi 2018 and Patrice Grasset bring back recollections of a previously-forgotten night. The liquid rarely lasts long, but the smell lingers.

Memories, they come and go, and so many times they return for a relapse before becoming ghosts of a past romance. They drink my wine and tequila, they skew my perception of love, and they ruin my sheets — and they positively leave their impressions on me. I thank them for the time they gave me, hoping that one of the humans on my path stays with me for the ride.

I’ve found I’m fond of memories, though; memories are things we’ve left behind. They remind me of times when passion was strong and oftentimes I was stronger. I fall into and out of platon-ish relationships far more than I’m recommended to, but so far I’m enjoying the sunrises more than the sunsets.

The sunrise means I’ve made it to another day, and most often it means I have an obligation, like work or an errand, to use as an excuse to leave behind my actions after last sunset. I’ve come to appreciate sleeping alone, eating alone, drinking alone — that decompression from passion and the opportunity to mull over the thoughts that I share only with myself. There’s still nobody I’ve met who gets me quite like myself.

This past year has made me a stronger human. I don’t allow the ghosts to haunt me, and I don’t let them break me should they reappear in my life. But I’ve always got the smile on my face that lets them know they lost me, not the other way around. And my eyes tell them that doors are never truly closed, and even if they are closed — they aren’t locked.

And so I relish the time I can take to keep others at an emotional distance. Though they try so hard, they can’t fix me with passion — but maybe in another life.

I haven’t even recycled the cardboard from six months ago (and it doesn’t help that the city’s recycling is still shut down) — it’s clear I still have some items on my to-do list. Pictures to hang, furniture to buy, lessons to learn, and a broken mind to mend. But it’s satisfying to know how well-off I am on move-in year.

I’ve found several pieces to myself this year, and I go back and forth and up and down deciding on which emotion to commit to. These stories are the truest reflection of the chaos inside me, and my ego overtakes the self-destruction when it can, but it doesn’t always win. And those days I fall back on the consolation that my loft is a work in progress — just like me.

One day… one day, my to-do list will be empty. And like Lazarus, I will rise.