Leaving NRW.

It's nearly 1:30 a.m. and we're sitting in an airport out in the cuts. We took the last train from Duesseldorf Hauptbahnhof and lucked out in that a) there was a taxi waiting for us in Kevel and b) the airport is open 24 hours.

This has been one of the most difficult weeks of my life. Or maybe that's a bit hyperbolic. But then again, not really. I should rephrase: it has been one of the most emotionally trying weeks of my life.

I am in a place in my life where I kind of thrive off escaping and being on the go, because I'm not so content with things. That's difficult to explain, because I love my life, but at the same time, I have an intense desire to skip town and not look back, and it takes all I have to ignore that. Meanwhile, Elia is incredibly settled in the life she's made in San Francisco, and the two different emotional places we come from on this trip are a bit challenging to reconcile. She misses her boyfriend and bed like crazy, while all this traveling inspires in me is an urge to uproot and disappear. I'm thriving off of it because it's an escape for me, but she's miserable because she misses home. We're not on the same page, which is fine, but it's hard for both of us in different ways, I think. Hard for her because she misses home. Hard for me because I miss what's right in front of me.

Just three hours ago we were sitting in J's room with Kettcar on the stereo figuring out our plans to catch our flight. Moments later we were scrambling to throw our belongings together and make it to the station in time, realizing that leaving seven hours early is the only way we'd make our 6:30 a.m. flight (I'll explain the logistics in a later entry).

So we found ourselves on the last train out, traveling into the night, me listening to Kristofer Astrom and the Decemberists, staring at the blue cloth seats and trying not to cry.

A few days ago I could anticipate this. Not the exact circumstances, but the overwhelming sadness I would soon be subject to. Why I do this to myself, I don't know. The mind is a funny thing; the heart even funnier. I can easily convince myself that I feel (or don't feel) a certain way, or will react (or not react) in a certain matter, but when it comes down to it, the way I end up feeling is this beautifully raw and painfully true thing that I can never prepare myself for.

J is one of the most important people in my life. I've never met anyone quite like him (and I'm nearly certain I never will). He's a confidant and a best friend (one of three), and an unlikely fixture in my life, but one I would never trade.

And even though our relationship is very clearly confined to a certain amount of time over a certain amount of time, it works. 1/52nd of a year with him isn't enough, but it's all I seem to get. And maybe that's why it works. Maybe two months or half a year or every day would ruin it. Our friendship began as a thing of distance, of safety. If we took away that distance, would we fight, or disagree or grow apart? I'm not certain, as there are never guarantees. What I do know is that even though I'm mentally prepared to have a short and amazing time with him and then know I eventually have to say goodbye, that awareness never does prepare me for when that time to say goodbye arrives.

I was on the phone with Brian (another of the best friends) just two nights ago, trying to explain this to him, how the inevitable goodbye after a visit filled with highs just kills me. And while I know it's the way things have to be, it doesn't make them any easier.

He told me:

"Life is feeling. You're living. It's beauty. Embrace it in all its brilliant ecstacy and pain. Don't question living!"

I know he's correct, so I'm trying to adhere to that kind of thinking. But it's never easy, because life is never always easy. And so it goes.

N

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