I've been sucked into dreams of running through trees, hearing the insects buzz in their melodious choruses. Dreams that have haunted me in the day time, stirring a desire for these specters to become reality. My stomach pulls itself into knots, as if it, too, is demanding to be pulled back into the dreams that have caused me to resent falling asleep, only because when I wake, I awaken to where I really am.
It could be that I've given myself time to delve into my imagination through fiction books again. Or that it's Spring. It could be the smell of my laundry after it's been on the clothesline. Or the feeling of dirt under my fingernails and the smell of mud after the rain. It might even been the mountain air songs that have been dancing around in my head, lullabies that haven't taken a true form yet, but offer their silvery harmonies.
I've even become obsessed with words again.
I ache for these things that are out of my reach. Things that distance has taken me from, or ability and talent. In any situation, the things that I ache for are currently not in my grasp and keep elusively skipping away from me.
I feel constantly claustrophobic in the city. The air stifling and musty, receiving my only relief when I enter into the closed darkness of our cool, airconditioned home. And even then, I know that I am sacrificing the true remedy--the fresh air and cool breezes found only away from the black topped roads and sunnily painted houses, as if they are compensating for something, blackness lurking in their hallways.
I bounce between loving this place and despising it. Loving it, only because it is where I am and where I am to be. Hating it because it pulls me away from where I feel I am made to be. Hating it because I can't ever seem to fully love it, so what is the alternative? I am not a creature of luke-warm attachments.
