I long for the long road that fades into the horizon, a road that ripples under raw heat and forces you to move on. I long for the smell of hot sage and solitude. I need a day where I don’t have to talk to anyone—a day with me. I’m always anxious. I long for wherever I am not. Surround me with plain and sparse beauty and nothing else. The beauty of listening to nothing but the tap tap tap of keys and my long heavy sighs.

 

I am anxious for freedom. Freedom that never comes. Freedom to not worry about what he or she or they will think. Freedom to write and not be right. I want to tell it like it is without the fear of you slamming the cover tight on me. I shake my head knowing nobody else can write these words and nobody speaks their truth. It’s all censored, it’s all shaped by fear. I fear that you’ll turn your nose up and huff away… it will be too much. I fear your silence will be an unbearable silence. The silence of nobody.

 

Do you really want to know my story? Or do you want me to dice it up so it is bearable for you? You won’t like me. I don’t. There is nothing good or honorable in this tale, except perhaps my relentless desire to do better, to make it better. Yet I predict someday I will settle. I predict someday I will stop caring. I’ll stop caring about what you think and what I look like and I welcome that day. It will contain a peace that only comes from resignation.

 

I tire of striving; the little I do is too much for me. Some of us were not meant for striving. I am not an ambitious woman but I am a woman pushed and driven, driven and pushed by something that began long before I did. I was birthed into this world set on must have, must have, more, more, more.

 

I long to hear the buzz of heat that echoes off the asphalt and the roads of my youth, filled with dust and 10,000 dreams. When my only leather was a medicine pouch and moccasins and I did not live to serve you.