Riding quiet rails under the blanket of darkness, I am removed from the sleepy cityscape, industrial park after superstore skating by us without even a whisper. This is what it's like as you ride east from Los Angeles. The seats are wide and warm, the windows large and clean, and slow or fast, the train hops and leans in a relaxing rhythm that insulates you, rocks you deeper into your seat. It's not claustrophobic like a plane; You're encouraged to move around and explore, and the bad inflight movie is replaced by the view. It's not a cruise ship - not so far, at least - there are no activities or entertainment. This trip has only begun, and I haven't been out of this seat yet.
Sunday, December 16th, 8:20am
In Gallup
I just had breakfast with three strangers, talking about our destinations both in life and location. The long, flat plain outside had snow scattered throughout, and now, I'm at home enough to begin seeing all this in perspective. Fairly soon, thanks to an absence of outlets, my iPod will sleep and the only soundtrack I'll have until I arrive at Chicago will be the marriage of wheel to track.
The view, of course, continues to be a feast for my eyes. I'm soaking in every detail, not even really pausing to take pictures because the beauty rests in the fact that the landscape is constantly moving, changing shape and height, unfamiliar patterns suddenly appearing in front of a very wide horizon. And what am I doing at this point in my life, other than enjoying the scenery? (I'm staring at mountains, by the way, mesas rising above snowy fields.) Honestly, I'm thinking about a goodbye I just had, about sixteen years in the making. It's a story I can't reveal too many details about, of course, but not wanting to be accused of being boring about it, I'll dance a little. Better yet, I'll make this a slow dance so it'll count.
I have loved many times in this life, but I have only been in love once. It was both perfect and completely imperfect at the same time, kind of like a flawed but unique diamond whose flaw lends the mystery and name to it. My heart was captured in a bubble of youth and left broken inside it when we went our separate ways, and the rest of me slowly fell apart over many forgotten seasons until there was nothing left. All that remained was a small simple puzzle of a heart in an airtight bubble. Hope that she would return faded after years, and then true hope that I would return faded after. The story becomes somewhat familiar at this point. I discovered theatre and began breathing again, obsessing over this new language of creativity. I couldn't stop; I wrote plays, songs, poetry, played with photography and art.
(We're motoring alongside Route 66 through a town I can only describe as the one from the movie Cars.)
There has been one constant throughout the theater years. The bubble stayed intact. It didn't matter what I did or who I was with, the heart in the bubble stayed broken and I knew I couldn't be loved. She tried and couldn't maintain. Others made an effort but were conflicted. Everyone else affirmed my short-sighted belief, but then again, I DO live in Los Angeles, and the entire population seems to be a mismatched collection of odds and ends. Try as hard as I have, I have not been able to romanticize the city as much as my solitary experience in it.
Very recently, the girl appeared in the shape of a voice, a faceless spring flowing with familiar feelings and affection. It was the sound that I had been missing for 16 years, the almost unrecognizable beat of my young, intact heart. Over a few months and scattered conversations flavored with some longing and regret, she managed to mend the heart and pop the bubble with a gentle goodbye. Are our paths altered by the fact that we made contact? Does anything in our lives get redefined?
(Riding towards the New Mexico/Colorado border, and there is a beautiful, vast nothingness out my window. Yellow plains, meet blue sky.)
Nothing changes. We are who we are now. What I wanted to remind her of is that she's precious, unique, loved, and up to now, the magical love of my life. She made me feel just as special, but even more so, she encouraged me to be open to deserve it from someone new. Yes, I can be loved. Yes, I can hold her in my heart as my soulmate. I just don't think that we're given only one. She held me throughout my young adulthood. I can, now at 40, hold my 24 year old heart in the brand new search for my happily ever after. That's where this trip begins; I am full, finally complete and ready to start over. I'm in a place to see new worlds, meet new people, and I'm fueled by the knowledge that someone out there loves me. She began this transformation of me with a kiss beneath a starry sky, and finished it with the news that she's moving away and wants to see me happy.
Someone out there loves me. How awesome is that? Now, where is my next love?
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