I used to believe that I couldn't be happy anywhere. But the places weren't the problem. Indeed, I couldn't be happy. But entering now...
What should I do if I could be happy anywhere? I have my preferences. Still, I could blindly point to a map and find myself pleased with my location. I can't be deterred from the travel... or can I?
In the sun, I'd recall the places. I can remember so many places. The sun or ocean, brick or cement, mountain, city, car ride busting out of my head from memories long forgotten. In the sun, I'd walk by a place and think of a dream: a dream of an intimate god and the basis of my life at its most raw. The place I walked by, the building that makes me say, "What are you? Where am I? I'd join you, whoever you are, if only you'd let me in..." Forever in that place I've been. No matter where I'd go, I'd never leave.
Memories of the place, flooding back, in the sun, fighting their way out of my head. This place that makes me question, "Did I dream that?" Years ago, I led a life quite different. In the midst of it, was I there? Did I ever even go there? Was it the secrecy of its perimeters that now project me back to the outside of a building, older than I know, trying to determine if I found the intimate god and went inside?
Behind and to the left, again. Always behind and to the left. How dare I attempt to make order of my life before it's ready to be ordered?
How dare I forget such places, as though I'd somehow left.