heartache in the second person

As you grow older, the loneliness becomes different, the silence of the house as noticeable as a baby crying. This is the tradeoff you have made. You thought you could be different, you thought you could have it all, and so you refused to settle for the hometown boy, the easy catch, the certainty and commitment that comes so easily to some people. You wanted more. There would be romance and risk and adventure, the kind of life one could write about, but you believed too that in the end there would be a deep and abiding love. You were driven by some great unspoken need to prove – to whom? – that you were strong and independent and interesting. You didn't realize when you set off down this path that independence sometimes means loneliness; that strength is a double-edged sword; that you can't have one thing without giving up another. You didn't realize that you cannot be an artist or a poet without suffering, and that sometimes, the suffering is self-inflicted and yet cannot be stopped.

For a while, getting on a plane or staring down the barrel of an open highway seemed like the answer. But you cannot run away from this life you've chosen. It's no better a way to stave off loneliness than having a baby at 16. And though you feel bold and confident, now -- most of the time -- you are as vulnerable as any 16-year-old girl when you are in love. So when another heartache carves out a sliver of your resolve and optimism with the precision of a surgeon's blade, you hold your head high and pack your bags, hoping that someday, someone will want to go with you. You look out the window, your eyes alone seeing what's on the other side.