Friday, August 31, 2012

fly again

I think I'm gonna take me a ride
Don't want nobody no not this time
Find me a place I can park my truck
Hop on the hood, gonna light one up
I'll check the sights on my .22
Take a couple pot shots at the moon
Now that you're gone there's nothing to lose
I think it's time I forget about you
I'm gonna say goodbye to you tonight
So long old friend, I'm gonna fly again

I've been listening to this song on repeat lately. For a while I couldn't figure it out - was it his voice? The twang of the guitar? Is it just a good song? All of the above? I thought and thought and then decided to stop thinking and enjoy it.

Wouldn't you know, the realization hit me with the late summer breeze as I picked up speed on the highway commute this morning. 

Listening to this song reminded me of how I used to feel
that painful realization every single Goddamn morning 
long, unbearable days trying to forget, to think about anything but
nights staying away, awake, for longer than my body thought possible

Saying to myself over and over again, "I think it's time I forget about you" and just wanting it to happen already, to not have to force it anymore. 

I spent nearly two months trying to cope with my new singleness, my failed relationship, while still living in our home. I tried my best every day to think outside of the situation and reclaim my life. I tried and tried and tried. That's why this song strikes me so deeply: that's something I used to feel, something I used to have to try to do every single day.

Then, one day, it stopped being something I had to try to do. It happened on its own. I don't know what happened on that day, or even when it was. 

I don't have to try to forget about him, or the relationship. I don't have to cleanse myself or make an effort to move on or let go --

it's happened already.

Here's to flying again.


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