November Dreamer

City Park, New Orleans

On Wednesday morning, I went with a friend to City Park in New Orleans. It was the first time I'd been there since my mother and I went to see the New Orleans Museum of Art when I first moved down there in July. That morning, we walked around the sculpture garden and sat by the lake, talking about absolutely nothing and everything. The sunlight was warm, and the skies were blue that morning. I felt like a cat, ready to curl up in a ball and doze off for the rest of the day.

It has become more and more apparent to me that I live as if I were in the midst of dreaming. I go to classes, I study, I socialize, but the core of my being isn't here. I escape from the banality of the present, because my mind is fixated on the idea that there is something greater for me out there. I keep dreaming of the day that I finish writing that goddamn story--because when you've become obsessed with an idea for eight years, it becomes inextricable from your being. You think that your gift was bestowed upon you so that you could give it back to the world.

Then, there is also the issue of my solitude. As we sat under the veils of Spanish moss draped across oak branches, I tried explaining to my friend, though I doubt she understood me. Most people don't. They ask me if I don't ever get lonely, but what they don't realize is that from time to time, I do. What pushes me through is the same blind faith in the future -- that there is something greater out there. I bide my time. I wait. And that when the time comes, I will know it in my gut.