Navel-Gazing

I've seen and done many things in the past twenty-seven, nearly twenty-eight years. I've lived all over the northern portion of this state. I've burned more bridges, both deliberately and accidentally, than I can remember. While I am not haunted by my past, there are certain nights where I can feel it swirling around me, thick enough to breathe in, a taste on my tongue like the ghosts of all the cigarettes I've smoked, all the hard alcohol I've consumed.

I miss aimless late night drives behind the wheel of my old Chevy Cavalier, arm draped out the window, headlights cutting through the fog as another sad acoustic song played on my stereo and I sang along.

I miss walking through razor-edged grass near my childhood home, bare feet on warm sand, as the sun set over Lake Michigan and my body was surrounded in the borrowed golden glow reflecting from beach and water.

I miss sitting outside my apartment down on Clarion, lighting a new cigarette from the butt of the old one, riding high on an intoxication born of youth and love and copious amounts of Captain Morgan's.

I miss walking home from the pub at two in the morning, confident in the amount of space my body occupied, stomach flat and tanned, shoulders broad, the smell of the asphalt rising up through a humid July night in this small town.

I miss looking up through the lilac streaks in my once-long hair, not in a flirtatious way, but in a questioning one.

Going back further, I miss cradling my guitar against my chest and belly in the days when I still played. I miss B.'s overnights at my house, when he'd play "Hotel California" and we'd both sing. I miss sneaking cd's to J. and hoping his mother wouldn't find out.

I miss making snow forts out of the giant piles created by the plow when they came to clear our driveway, the way the cold never seemed to touch me until I went inside. Running down a dirt road, then cutting through the woods to get to the beach, calloused feet oblivious to the stones and sticks.

I miss the days of being responsible only to and for myself, the freedom of being single and broke but capable of working whatever hours were necessary, however many jobs it took to get what I needed.

I miss sitting down at the pub and staring into Jeremy's eyes as we got progressively more and more drunk, then walking out, stopping at 7/11 for cigarettes and snacks, and making our way home, sometimes with friends, sometimes not. Nights spent sitting in my unfurnished living room, an afternoon lying on the floor listening to Bill Hicks, that sexual tension between us thick and heavy.

There are so many things I miss, and yet, I doubt I'd go back and relive them, for fear of messing up my chances to get to where I am now.

I miss a lot. But every bridge burned, from my first conscious decision to cut some unhealthy tie, to the events of the past few days, has been for my good, and while I spend my introspective moments looking back on my past, examining every path that's parted from mine of my accord, I refuse to feel grief, and I refuse to question those decisions.

They are in my best interest.