You can never go home again
I just took the feeling for granted. I’d always know these people. The ones I grew up with, next door neighbors, all of them. Even co workers I only worked with for about a year and a half.
Living as an adult exactly where you grew up (even if a few miles away), makes it easy to not feel the uneasiness of change. I’m not sure why I valued a lack of complacency so much.
I was being stifled by the feeling that I couldn’t understand exactly what other people were talking about when they’d write me to tell me of a new place they’d now be living in.
I drove with my pal Jay to LA to move him in about 10 years ago. I wasn’t jealous, I was happy for him, that he was proving to me that it could be done. To put your signature on your life, and make it look exactly as you want it to.
Circumstance be damned: What your parents did for a living, where they could afford to rear you, whether or not your city became a tech hub.
And I don’t mean to romanticize what moving means for everyone, I just want to romanticize it for myself. It means you can make it anywhere, that you can make a life anywhere you choose that suits you at the time. Is boundlessness worth being far from your friends’ garage smells, baby photos or family members who are shriveling up with age?