The Story About Not Finding Yourself

Ma lied to me about using credit cards she'd taken in my name, notices told the tale. I let them repossess my car to keep post-Uni plans for the Emerald Isle, which I liked to consider my homeland. Filed bankruptcy at twenty-four. Felt like I could handle city streets and what better way to find yourself after learning how little you know those who love ya. The boy from Dublin English School and I battled sticks at Stephen's Green, went on to teach and I did my time at a school in Waterford run by a Canadian lunatic, which I now recall as one of those best of times, sniffing good and hard at the marker board to cloud my mind from fear, pints of Murphys before class some mornings. Meant to say cans because ya don't walk with pints, though I probably would have. So I made it through and liked the authority. Fast-forward and boy-man from Dublin English School said come teach in Italy they've got space, and before I could blink at the roses he'd shoved me so hard to concrete for reasons unknown (pints actually), that I absconded to a pal's in Leeds and started dancing (fork in the road). Missing Dublin so I called myself Dallas. A childhood friend came to Leeds at Christmas, later married the pal who'd put me up (fork had potential). No need to bother about cliches on meant to be's, anything can happen. I went home with a multitude scattered on winds forgave my Ma with a distance. Didn't know which one to pick so I built a wall and started Grad school for Counseling. But you could say I was haunted by equivocal longing for that green place. Aced my first exam in Intro to Pharmacology and ed off to clouds of smoke for eight or nine years and they were good ones and I let go of notions that things need finding. Things come in curious ways to fall apart and come back together. What better way is there?