between the lines

Two very different lives. I live in the middle of two very different lives.

As I drove through the city tonight, looking at the lights, passing the landmarks in the significant events of my life, I feel somewhat aged.

But most of all, I feel the freedom of my life. I feel my tendency to live somewhat removed from others; it's easier and safer, after all. I drive and watch and sing and get wrapped in the memories of days past. A still ache lies internally, wondering if I will ever get back to those days, the safety and security of those days. I think about it, about the freedom, and about the pain. I have caused a lot of pain; I have burnt bridges. I wonder if I learned from it yet.

My days are filled with some of the most dear friends imaginable. They are filled with a community of believers who have radically altered the way I have seen the world. They are filled with living paycheck to paycheck and off my spare change jar. They are filled with small sorts of adventures and filled with time alone. They hold breakfasts out with friends, nighttime talks with roommates, laughs from the nephews.

Yet somewhere, growing more each day, somewhere in me there is the seed: the reminder of my other life. It continues on in the south. I update myself daily. I remember the evening storms and lights across the water. I remember hugs and holding small hands. I remember the smells and the quiet. I remember the feeling of being there. The physical heat that consumed, the relief of a cold trickle of water and fan, the grit of dirt under your feet and all over your belongings. The smell of sweat and bug spray and ocean and thick air. Only the sound of the fan, some nights mixed with voices, singing or laughing.

But I mostly remember the comfort in being there. The strange semblance of peace that resides heavily over the place, as thick as the air and as heavy as the brokenness.

I live between the two lives. I'm not sure I will ever escape it, nor that I will ever fully want to.