There were always reasons to return, and even though cathartic, those reasons remain secret to even the traveler who has made it their destination.

Through age the yoke of relationships reveal themselves to me in ways unfamiliar. Through detached observation, patterns of connective tissue become a kaleidoscope of fascination and awe.

With certainty wonder becomes sorrow. It’s difficult to interpret, difficult to feel, and ultimately, difficult to explain. I told my psychologist it feels like I live on the side of the fence that delivers electric shocks when attempting to climb it for the purpose of reaching people on the other side. I said to others it appears as if I have a wall up when really I’m reeling from intense emotions to the point of incapacitation, along with a sense that there is no way around that shock, so that ultimately, I stand down and give up.

He says I’ve made the fence up in my head and I listen. But he doesn’t address the shock so neither do I. I’m not sure he’ll ever realize the irony. A place is only as beautiful as finding someone who will hold your hand unafraid to acknowledge and feel the same shock. On the other hand, that kind of beauty feels misaligned and unfair to ask or expect of anyone.

I’ll keep trying while age keeps reminding me that fruitless results are a reflection of the gardener and not the sun.

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