Why do I fall in love so easily with places, and so sparingly with people?
I've never cried as much over a boy as I did when I left Spain. Hours on the plane, and then every day after, counting the number of days I'd been gone. How high did I get to before I forced myself to stop counting? I can't remember now, but it's written in an old journal somewhere.
I've never looked at so many pictures, over and over, of a boy as I do at pictures of Alaska. Following accounts on Instagram, setting pictures as my computer background, re-living times and adventures by looking through my albums from my season in Denali.
I've never been so comfortable with a boy as I am when I go home. I can be doing projects, or lazy, outside, or in, but everything from the house to the familiar mountains to family and the dogs is home-y and renewing.
It's like a part of my metaphorical anatomy is a little off-center. There's too much space for places, and gets bigger and bigger the more I go, the more I see, the more I love. There's not enough place for romance, and seems to dwindle with un-use. The longer I'm single, the harder and harder it is to make that first step, try dating someone. People keep telling me that high standards are good, and not to settle...and always seem to critique the boys that fleetingly catch my interest.
Maybe now that I'm stuck in a place, I can somehow make a little more space--even out the compartments a bit, and try to love someone. Maybe it will be easier the more I let go. Maybe, If I just try.