I’m sitting in an airport in Mexico City and all I can think about is how easy it is for me to love hating a place that refuses to leave me even as I’m leaving it. I spent the last three months in a tailspin of post-graduation 22-ness in a city that made me feel guilty for it, that made me feel guilty for feeling so useless and lonely and flat half the time when it is so bristling and in-focus and alive all the time, and now I’m sitting in an airport thousands of miles away and all I can think is home. I sat in an apartment window in that city and felt the cool spring breeze on my face and watched people shuffle around below me and the word isn’t ungratefulness, because god knows how much of my struggle was dedicated to that slick art, but me, there, maybe the word was removal. but now I’m thinking home. I’m watching kids march in place on the moving walkway next to me, and I’m thinking how much of a fucking fool I am. for lots of things, but mostly for thinking movement goes in only one direction, and for doubting a place that so obviously changed me all of its life-changing abilities. all it took was a plane ride to remind me.
Plaza Francia, Buenos Aires, Argentina