Christina Hubbartt


Memory is such a fickle thing.
It dwells in an individual’s truth,
far different,
far distant,
than the truth of another’s in the same moment.
I tried running away from everything once.
Car bound, with a friend and no purpose,
to West Texas nowhere.
I hid my fears in impulsiveness.
Convinced even myself that I was creating
experience that would one day benefit me.
I did this for me.
Is this what I want?
Blurs of brown crunchy Texas, DQ’s, and small towns passed by.
I wanted to avoid everything uncomfortable.
Failed marriage, failed job… failed self.
I just didn’t realize that’s what I was doing.
Not until much later.
Even later still I fear.
Now that the dust of uncertainty is starting to settle,
memories are returning to a familiar focus.
In the impending dark
of the dry cold desert moments,
I fumbled for answers.
But I’d never find them.
I laid on the cool Airbnb bed,
rented, much like this experience.
A monetary and time exchange,
in hopes for something meaningful.
I remembered how the dust was never ending.
Settling like a veil of desert dew in all things.
In all crevices seen and unseen,
laying claim to even our temporary presence.
It danced in the light of the cracked window where the sun spilled.
I wondered why I exerted the energy in seeking.
Was it meaning?
Even that seemed far fetched and too deep.
I just wanted direction.
I was running away,
when I desperately wanted to run towards…
Desert chill forced me to clutch
tighter to my coated chest.
I have no heart, I thought.
A tear slid down my cheek.
I'm better nowhere-bound
than here on solid desert ground,
searching for meaning in all these actions.
Hoping for an experience.
Hoping to feel again.
A fly settled on the back of my hand.
It seems we’re here for the very same reason.

Christina Hubbartt: Current resident in Austin, TX, I’ve considered myself a wanderer of the world. Living in more countries than states, and continuing to add to the value of experiences I can encounter in my life. Graduate in graphic design and accounting I find a multitude of way to express myself from the silent moments in nature to the loving gabs with strangers. I spend most evenings concocting my next adventure or getting lost in a book or painting.

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The views and opinions expressed throughout belong to the individual artists and may or may not coincide with those of the other artists (or editors) represented within the magazine. Hobo Camp Review supports a free-for-all atmosphere of artistic expression, so enjoy the poetry, fiction, opinions, and artwork within, read with an open mind, and comment wisely. Thanks for stopping by the Camp!