are you sick of this story yet?

The old lamp post caused my body to cast its long lean shadow against the sidewalk as I walked through the crisp cool night in the direction of home. It was early enough that the wind had died down and the moon shown as strong as it ever would tonight. Despite the calm and quiet, my mind roared. It was screaming about the week, a failed P Chem test, assignments that were due, people I needed to see, food I hadn't eaten, drama that shouldn't involve me, and things that needed to be taken care of. As my boots plodded down each familiar cement square I tried to remember the feeling of the Portuguese wind.

The wind that brought a refreshing, uplifting magical feeling every time it blew past and ruffled my dress. But I couldn't. I couldn't remember the smells that floated on the breeze that would lead me on adventures in search of their origin. Or the promise it carried. Or how it seemed lighter because it had been warmed by the sun. Or its salty aftertaste that was like a calling card for the beach.

I could only remember the frigid Jewell wind that bites into your soul and holds on with an iron grip. The kind that takes your breath away and forces you to hunker down to hold onto what little body heat you have.

This is how I view these two places. One warm and full of adventure and free, the other bitter cold and constraining.

I have never felt the urge so strong to run from here. I thought it was bad when I first got back from Portugal, but it's consuming my life. I'm exhausted from the fight it takes to keep my feet on the ground. I'm ready to jump ship and get the hell out of here.