From My Sleep and Slumber...

We are deep in the throes of autumn. I meander along oft traveled pathways, ever aware of the visages of death that abound in the trees; litter grass and concrete.

Surrounded by this slow ebbing of life, I have never felt more vibrant and alive.

Since I occupy one of the many suburbs of Atlanta, I've always considered myself an inhabitant of a small town. Never have the actions of the people in my community belied this assertion; this is the personification of such. The pervasive miasma of stagnancy. The familiarity. The complacency. The raggedly run circle of downpression and despair. The sleepiness. I feel it when I step outside. It inhabits the buildings, the air, the ground I walk on, and threatens to seep into my bones. It wants to trap me. It wants me to die miserable and unaccomplished in this old, old hood.

There used to be a time when I'd adamantly state that there was no way in hell I'd move from Georgia, much less Atlanta. And no lie, I enjoy the relative cushion and safety of a smaller town. But gone is the affinity. I feel imprisoned in some eerie pit of stasis; the atmosphere here is irritating and cloying. I have all the tools, all the talent to be successful in many capacities. But there is NO movement. Not much longer can this be something I complain about but do little to change.

And so I plan to hie away from this podunk town as soon as possible. This idea is nothing new; it's one that I've played with off and on for the past couple of years. I've been talked out of it, either by doubting self, by non-believers, nay-sayers, or friends too selfish to let me go. I've been convinced that a vacation was all I needed. You just feel that way because things aren't going well, they'd say. I just feel this way because things aren't going well,I'd parrot, like the useless drone I can sometimes be. And as always, FEAR held me back.

I am still afraid as the dickens. A bit of a conservative resides in this liberal body and the thought of any drastic change at times makes me reach for my paper bag. The only difference is that I am now two parts fear and one thousand parts excitement. The thought of new scenery, new locales, new anything makes me as anxious as one who looks forward to the return of their lover at the end of the day. It's the promise of transformation that makes my skin tingle. The likelihood of upward energy shifts that induces my pulse to race. The thought, the thought, the...thought of being happy and satisfied with actions and decisions made that causes the whole of self to beam. I am enamoured with the concept of the I of the future. I am passionately infatuated with the possibilities of self.

For the first time in a long time, I have something bigger and better to look forward to. I am day and night dreaming, projecting, and planning again. I welcome this.

The where is still up in the air. I look at the US as a blank journal of sorts; and I'm confident I can rewrite my story in a number of places. The how is a slowly forming plan of action, as I am in no position to just up and leave. Though I do wish my fairy godmother would see fit to transplant I and the twins to the destination of my choice, in an apartment/house/condo/townhome/loft replete with furniture, appliances, knicknacks, and various other doohiddlies to lessen my workload. But I won't hold my breath.

I know I have a lot of work and a long journey ahead of me. I know there will be moments of self-doubt; short periods where my mind seems changed. I know that I will miss my family and friends, though hopefully there will be new relationships forged and old ones kept in loyal stead. But if I stay here forever, I know without doubt I will miss even more what might have been. The only thing constant about me is this omnipresent need to be awake. And whole.

Life is a possibility for all of we.