life in laramie iv.

We danced for the plants on a Saturday night, in an old railroad depot next to the tracks. Bluegrass music is playing, and I dance with strangers, and Claire, and who knew? But I am a good dancer, so it seems. We see old friends and make new ones, slipping out with pretzels in our purse after for drinks at another bar. I drop a glass. It's a good night--one that reminds me how lucky I am to live in a place nicknamed "Laradise," this cozy little town at 7220 feet.

There's a warm spell, and the snow melts. It's 50 degrees, every day, and the winter coat + boots go back in the closet. My car needs work, I finish War and Peace--the weeks fly by so quickly, a blur, and I'm not sure I mind. My college years were spent bargaining with time, imploring it to slow down, so I could stop, for one second, and process everything that was happening--but the days are so much quieter now, full of routine, and there's no use for that, anymore.

There's a song, by Sigrid, where she sings "I throw myself off of heights that used to scare me." That's me. Because the girl who was scared to ride a bike, learn to ski, drive, talk to people, now does stuff that would have scared her less than a year ago.

People are more religious out here, and I understand why--because it's impossible [my opinion, anyways] not to see God in this great wide expanse, rolling hills and open spaces and breathtaking landscapes. When I'm driving outside, sometimes I just say thankyouthankyouthankyou. I'm not sure who I'm even talking to--God, Allah, Jesus, Rumi, the Saints, the Universe--but it doesn't matter. Faith and religion--even my own religion, which sees me in a church pew, semi-regularly--don't seem to matter in the great, wide expanse. It all melds together, and I'm just happy to be here, thanking whoever is listening.

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