Tangled

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One can be homesick without missing home.

Waking up is like grasping into empty space. Your being is awoken to some shapeless longing that has neither the substance of pain nor the burn of romantic desire, yet makes itself known by the silent gaps that you can no longer fill, the ones that used to be filled by the rhythm of your old life. You cannot attach your longing to a person or a place, but only clumsily to some vague notion of belonging, marked by nostalgic settings, sounds and shadows.

Perhaps what you are longing for is safe space, where you can fall down and not be afraid. But already the gulf between you and those who can provide it is racing. Those threads that stretch from your heart to theirs, they are wearing thin, but tug harder with the distance. Torn, you walk through the streets, trying to lay down a circle with your footsteps, to carve out the shape of protection. But already you’re not quite sure how to find the point your line began.

Your wandering traces the contours of your scars across the landscape of silence. If we could wipe out the past and obliterate the future, then perhaps we could fly free, and breath deep again. But you are weak, twisted and tangled, and you can only hold your knees and feel cold water cover your head as you sink into a strange sea, soothed and suffocated all at once.

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