Over affogato, I finally realized how unnecessary it is for me to figure anything out. One thing I haven't done in awhile? Just...trust. Without understanding, without reason, without being practical—trusting, that I won't be unfulfilled like this forever, that even a lifetime is a short time, and that love will find me before I find it. Just...trust.
For now, all there is for me is the vibrance and beauty of San Francisco, the glorious stretch of a queen-size bed, I-280 and my music, and that constant humming—that undeniable notion that happiness is not a privilege, but a right. I'm taking a few steps forward (and a couple steps back) in between hole-in-the-wall record stores and greasy fries, seeing nothing clearly, shivering in the cold, and (literally and figuratively) watching the fog part slowly.
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