That place called limbo...
I am... empty.
Words have been pouring out of my fingertips for the last 24 hours... and yet i feel like, with them, they've taken all of the experiences away. I wrote them all to remember, and instead i sent them all away. To live in curling lines of ink, in long-winded emails, in idealistic escapades no longer in my head.
My gut feels nothing but hunger. just plain, old hunger (it's just about noon...). Not love. Not exhileration. Not excitment.
Limbo.
Strasbourg isn't my home anymore... it, too, is a memory. And even though the setting is still here, the play had its closing night long ago. Any more life I'd want to start here would have to be starting anew...
I am ready to be home again... i need some solid ground, a more-than-temporary life upon which to plant my feet. I need people and love and hugs and a future to look forward to. I need smiles and sleep and connections and conversations.
I need to be home.
Perhaps Ireland's secret is that it steals a bit of your heart and holds it hostage... that's why "every irishman's dream is to return home..." They want that piece of their heart back. They can't feel the same awe and magic and exhileration of life without it. I'm know I have enough heart left to feel plenty upon returning home... but I do feel like, upon exiting ireland, i lost a small part of myself.
who knows. perhaps it's just tucked away in a corner of my luggage and i'll find it upon unpacking the copious amounts of STUFF i should be arriving home with (will be paying a hefty sum to check a third piece of luggage, because there was just no way my 7 months of european life would fit in the two suitcases alone...)
i can't stop writing because it seems to be the only way i can find feeling...
get me home.
I'm ready to leave.
Words have been pouring out of my fingertips for the last 24 hours... and yet i feel like, with them, they've taken all of the experiences away. I wrote them all to remember, and instead i sent them all away. To live in curling lines of ink, in long-winded emails, in idealistic escapades no longer in my head.
My gut feels nothing but hunger. just plain, old hunger (it's just about noon...). Not love. Not exhileration. Not excitment.
Limbo.
Strasbourg isn't my home anymore... it, too, is a memory. And even though the setting is still here, the play had its closing night long ago. Any more life I'd want to start here would have to be starting anew...
I am ready to be home again... i need some solid ground, a more-than-temporary life upon which to plant my feet. I need people and love and hugs and a future to look forward to. I need smiles and sleep and connections and conversations.
I need to be home.
Perhaps Ireland's secret is that it steals a bit of your heart and holds it hostage... that's why "every irishman's dream is to return home..." They want that piece of their heart back. They can't feel the same awe and magic and exhileration of life without it. I'm know I have enough heart left to feel plenty upon returning home... but I do feel like, upon exiting ireland, i lost a small part of myself.
who knows. perhaps it's just tucked away in a corner of my luggage and i'll find it upon unpacking the copious amounts of STUFF i should be arriving home with (will be paying a hefty sum to check a third piece of luggage, because there was just no way my 7 months of european life would fit in the two suitcases alone...)
i can't stop writing because it seems to be the only way i can find feeling...
get me home.
I'm ready to leave.
posted by Melia at 2:59 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home