You ask me where we should meet up. I think about when we’re meeting and how the light will fall across different parts of the city. Sitting in a coffee shop as the light hits the window and paints your world in gold is infinitely better than drinking your coffee in a colder, blue light. Every time I make decisions based on Light, you tell me how beautiful life is and how wonderful the place I chose is. You don’t realize it, but it’s always the light. The light changes everything.
When I go on my evening walk up towards Buena Vista Park, I need to turn left after the steep hill. If I do, I’m flooded with yellow light. The sky will, by some sort of magic, go from white to yellow to pink to orange to blue. Turn left after the steep hill and your life will change for fifteen minutes as the sun sets. Fifteen minutes is a long time when every minute is a slice of heaven and it’s all yours to eat. It tastes fucking Delicious.
I remember the endless summer evenings in Sweden when daylight refused to end. If I close my eyes, I can recreate the precise scent of a summer evening after rain and wild strawberries. And now, a decade later, walking through the Presidio at night, that very same fragrance rises from the grass. Then, in Sweden, young, dreaming of a life far away. Now, here, no longer dreaming about the same things, but ironically finding myself in the life I always dreamt of.
I wanted to live in Arlington Massachusetts, then Australia, then Spain, then the UK, and then somewhere in South America. Now, I want to be close to home but I’m not sure where it is. What can I do, when I am no longer the same? It’s hard to say exactly how much it costs. If you move somewhere far away, you need to let it change you. To your core. You should stay. Stay. You need to let it change you. Don’t be afraid. Remember, the grass in the Presidio, 8700 kilometers from home, smells the same as your Mother’s lawn after rain. You’ll be okay.
I dream of things to feel. I dream of the light. I dream of the air in the mediterranean. The warm breeze at 4pm. You think it’d smell the same everywhere. But the air in Mallorca is nothing like the air in the south of France, and Greece is it’s own category. Greece has a wetter air, heavy somehow, and Mallorca is dry, lighter. The tomatoes taste different too. The light and smell at 6am is completely different from 12pm. I want to feel the air at 6am but also sleep until my brain decides to wake up. I want to walk over the cold tiles, barefoot, quietly, so I don’t wake him up. It’s too early.
I open the door and the sea swallows me whole.
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