But it felt like I was imitating myself.

I've used the phrase "your heart breaks, tectonic" before.  I can't recall where, but it's one of those phrases that I use.  Because there are small heartbreaks.  Then there are those that change the landscape.

The point-of-view and tense were both exceedingly difficult for me to write in, but I wanted to depersonalize this, make it more universal.  If you grew up in a southwest town, this is what you felt.  You.  Me, included.

Let's see....I liked the beginning from my 2003 NaNoWriMo entry, so I used the same imagery, zooming in on the subject from the sky.  And I always felt pinned to the ground by the beauty of the sky in New Mexico.  You can't understand it unless you've been there, but it is constantly beautiful, and after a while you don't just get numb to it, you actually start to feel lorded by it.  I remember walking around the newer parts of the subdivision at night, headphones on, full moon rising over the Organ mountains and all I could think was: I can't open my eyes wide enough, I can't remember this well enough, and I certainly don't deserve this beauty.

You live in a small town, you love to hate it.  You want noting more than to leave.  Las Cruces wasn't that small, but my neighborhood was 10 miles out, isolated, and it felt tiny.  200 miles of desert north of me, and it felt small.

And yeah, Laurea and I were driving out of the state and all I could think was: this is it.

Why doesn't it feel bigger?

Why aren't the hills on fire?  Why isn't the sky falling?  Where's the parade?

And there in Tucumcari, we were delayed by the annual summer pagent, rodeo and fair parade.

We watched the floats, had breakfast, and headed east, across the wasteland of the Texas panhandle, losing forever our tie to the land at home.