Finding Momentum

So call it the naivete of the young, but isn’t life sup­posed to hap­pen in the city? Weren’t we sup­posed to defy the Man and his asso­ciate powers-that-be by liv­ing bohemian lifestyles, wan­der­ing from metrop­o­lis to metrop­o­lis, drink­ing in the fla­vors and col­ors and noises of life?

You know what I mean. Weren’t we meant to be young for­ever, crash­ing at friends’ places, tak­ing road trips, wast­ing long hours in front of the TV? I thought we were going to lounge our after­noons away in cof­fee shops talk­ing epis­te­mol­ogy, Burmese pol­i­tics, pre­des­ti­na­tion, the War­riors. I thought we were just going to cruise the daz­zling coast on the days we felt like it, our feet heavy on the gas pedal.

I’ve man­aged to lump all of my fears of the future together and project them into the idea of going home to sub­ur­bia. Hon­estly speak­ing, it’s less about sub­ur­bia than it is about going home. Going home val­i­dates some sort of regres­sion in my life. It marks an end to all of my rela­tion­ships. It means return­ing to a hazy, some­what unre­solved future.

But the city, man, the city. The city is sexy. The city is full of life and entice­ments and activ­ity and things to see. The city is Far. The city is full of won­der­ful strangers. The city is every­thing home is not.

I hate antic­i­pat­ing the future, describ­ing my life and my plans in fif­teen words to peo­ple I hon­estly don’t know if I’m going to see in a year. That uprooted feel­ing makes me ner­vous, but more so the feel­ing of going back to my roots. “So this is it, huh?” I fear telling myself next year. “This is my fab­u­lous life.”

No, no, no! I know that my hap­pi­ness isn’t deter­mined by where I live or what I do. I know this in a spir­i­tual sense (I am reminded of dreams I used to have, dor­mant now). But these fears still man­i­fest them­selves in the idle hours between classes, at red lights and in the min­utes before I close my eyes at night.

Maybe a rou­tine isn’t so bad. Maybe the 9–5 grind isn’t all that hard to work out. Maybe I’ll like the mazes of paved dri­ve­ways and well-manicured lawns. I think that appeals to Domes­ti­cated Me. And heck, who’s kid­ding who? I’ve always liked safety and com­fort. That won’t. be. so. bad.

Does going home mean drab­ness and 9–5 pris­ons? Does going home just mean suck­ing it up and grow­ing up? Does some­body need to smack some sense into me? Where is the joie de vivre in mono­chrome sub­ur­bia? Tell me, because I keep see­ing myself there and I have a feel­ing it’s what I think it is.