This Is When I Want to Write

It's late in something.  Meaning a night or a meal or a drive or a season.  There's a hint of change in the air fused with desiderium.  What is it that you long for?  Is it the freedom in between ordering a meal (or waiting for the pot to boil) and everything that comes in that space?  Is it happiness?  Is it the clean break?

There are roads on which we travel that never change in front of our eyes but are hardly ever the same when we return to them.  There are questions that will always linger.  Why are we not those questions.  Why the need for answers.  Why one way or the other.

When we're born, we don't know what home is.  But we do.  But we're leaving it.  But we're finding it.  The home.  Not so much a place but a motion towards remembering.

 

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