Sometimes I write

It's midnight and my family is sleeping.

I want to drive.

Best part of being back home is being able to drive. I haven't done enough of it. All I want to do is drive. Alone. Around Galveston. I want to drive around my past. Encircle it and wrap myself around it. I want to grab hold of it and remember, remember, remember. Perhaps not relive it but live with it. Find that part of me that knew who I was then and see if it at all corresponds with who I am now. Am I still that same person? Do people change?

I really doubt I make sense most of the time.

Words are useless! Either I seriously don't know enough of them or they simply fail in expressing anything I wish to express.

I don't even know what to express.

My heart pounding. Perhaps it's caffeine induced. Excedrin induced. Migraine induced. Induced isn't the word I want to use. Pounding isn't either.

I want to live in the alleys of Galveston. Not homeless. I wish I could wander. But I'm trapped here in this home, confined by these walls and a mother who defines our routes and time and mileage. I love Galveston so much. I love its history, its buildings, its people. I love its beach, its birds, its storms. I wish I could stay here forever. I wish I could explore Galveston's alleys, its secret places. Galveston is real. It's more real than any other place has been or will be in my life. Does that make sense?

I want to count and listen to the cars that drive by on Ferry Road. I want to make up stories of where their drivers are going, imagine their lives, think of people who aren't me. People who are living their lives.

I think I'm done.