I think about Florida a lot. I can still see the white beach stretched out and white-topped waves crashing against the sand. It’s interesting how one person can feel inspired by a place and almost fall in love with its intricacies when another person can feel exactly opposite. I read a blog recently about the author’s dislike of Florida, and, while I didn’t necessarily agree, I understood what she meant by loving a place other than your home. She loves New England, and I love Florida.
I think it’s because Florida, for me, isn’t home. It doesn’t hold dark memories or painful pasts. For me, Florida is a hot, sticky, sunburned memory. A soft kiss in the darkness. A cool shower after a sweaty day. Florida is all my memories of you.
That’s why I have a love-hate relationship with my hometown. I have crazy memories of daredevil drives and illegal antics that I envision when I drive down certain streets. But, I also have those few tiny moments that we spent wrapped together.
Maybe these are the reasons why I gravitate towards those green palm trees and blue waves whenever I want to run away. I was happy there, happier than I have ever been or will ever be.
Florida is my escape. I will escape again. Someday.