It’s a Friday evening approximately 9pm. I’m sitting in my sister’s arms crying about my life. A typical night in my family.
See all of my friends and lost loves have long left this fucked up town we spent years of chain smoking cigarettes and lighting bowls behind the local brewery, Ditching classes just to bite into local drama and Mongolian food.
I remember the nights spent in this small town. Coffee. Weed. And alcohol couldn’t even satisfy us because the real need was to leave. No one wants to stay in a small town where it’s the same routine. Wake up. Smoke. School. Work. Smoke. Sleep. Repeat.
We used to talk of adventure and vast cities. Our hopes of one day turning these dreams into reality. We wanted city lights. Late nights. Drunken lovers. Subways. We wanted fashion. We wanted beauty.
Our town was beautiful but when you are longer tied to it, it seems as if that town is no longer your home. I knew this the second I walked onto that football field and reached for my diploma. This is not home. This was a mere page in a chapter of my book. This is not home.
Home? Home is where the beach is. Home is where beautiful women fill the streets in two pieces.Home is where the trolley is the only real form of transportation. Home for me is where there is never ending possibilities. I’m not home.
My friends are off to Seattle and new York. Living in places I’d like to call home. My friends said yes to their dream and I was too scared to step out of the door and go to collage.
It’s Friday. School is back in. And I’m still here. What am I waiting for.