(no subject)
As much as we see the good and the bad . . . as much as we are able . . . as much as we recite the things that make up places . . . that make them places, unique from one another . . . there is still a homecoming. There are still roots that bind me here. Despite the time and distance and discomfort. The vacancy and memory that has filled whatever was there in the spot in me where "belonging" belonged. There is comfort in this flatness and in the wet morning grass and the dirt road that sticks to my shoes. The tall grass and our angle on the Milky Way. These endless roads and their fog and mirage and the corn that grows straight and the fields that become deciduous trees that become coniferous trees. The muggy air.
It can't be helped.
I will show you here and tell you the stories of here so that you know it too.
And we will never go too far away.
*
**
*
I am sick with crabbiness. It has it's grip on the base of my skull again and I can't sort through it or the fog that I've found myself in for three-or-so-days-now. It is an empty dark space I see ahead and don't want to crawl into. A different home coming. One I looked forward to before leaving but now feel sick about. In November there were eyes on December. In February there was still some time, and a hopeful uncertainty. Now there is a whole year in an abandoned place and an already sparse me getting thinner and thinner.
We take a walk by a stream under tall trees and I think of sleeping and reading children's books and stillness. I don't keep up my end of the conversation. I rarely keep up my end of the conversation. I avoid people or dread non-avoidance. Not because I dislike them, but because there is no ME for them. What would anybody want with an empty vessel which, by all means, should be fuller than ever?
It is 22 hours to a home I never wanted, though it leaves nothing to want for because it is beautiful and vibrant and kind.
It is 22 hours of empty land to empty land to a place to sit empty-handed and vacant.
I just can't find my way to get this right.
It can't be helped.
I will show you here and tell you the stories of here so that you know it too.
And we will never go too far away.
*
**
*
I am sick with crabbiness. It has it's grip on the base of my skull again and I can't sort through it or the fog that I've found myself in for three-or-so-days-now. It is an empty dark space I see ahead and don't want to crawl into. A different home coming. One I looked forward to before leaving but now feel sick about. In November there were eyes on December. In February there was still some time, and a hopeful uncertainty. Now there is a whole year in an abandoned place and an already sparse me getting thinner and thinner.
We take a walk by a stream under tall trees and I think of sleeping and reading children's books and stillness. I don't keep up my end of the conversation. I rarely keep up my end of the conversation. I avoid people or dread non-avoidance. Not because I dislike them, but because there is no ME for them. What would anybody want with an empty vessel which, by all means, should be fuller than ever?
It is 22 hours to a home I never wanted, though it leaves nothing to want for because it is beautiful and vibrant and kind.
It is 22 hours of empty land to empty land to a place to sit empty-handed and vacant.
I just can't find my way to get this right.