My intention for moving to Boulder was slow moving and solitude. I wanted to extract myself from old friends, hedonistic habits, and stagnant cycles. I came here to get in touch with nature, to wrap myself in the colorful quilt of her whispered mysteries. I wanted to free myself from the distraction and consumption of cities, of going all the time, doing all the time. I expected that a suburb with defined winter months would force me into the hibernation that I seek, that I need. Still, I resist.
My transplant to such a city has been difficult and has caused me great discomfort. Old habits die hard and the transition towards silence, solitude, contemplation, and slow moving has fallen by the wayside as I search exasperatedly for exactly what I had before. The comfort of community cannot be understated; it is still something I yearn for and I do not think it inconsistent with my mission of slowing down, but perhaps a welcome support.
Still, questions of “why am I here” and overwhelming sensations of “I don’t belong” have encouraged me to flee before I have even landed. Comparisons of my seven weeks here with my joyous two years in San Francisco fuel the fire of fear and confusion, a fire that unhesitatingly consumes and erases any semblance of rose-colored nostalgia. I have cried and I have cried, cracking open sequestered parts of myself, ripe for exploration. Which is I guess why I’m here, right on track.
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