I’m homesick for high places. Places where the sky feels closer; where I feel that I could stand on tiptoes and literally instead of figuratively have my head in the clouds. Clean air. Clarity.
I miss inspiration. When it ebbs, my hope wears off. My sense of humour fades out. Colours drain from my surroundings. Awareness of isolation sharpens. Realisations take on a horrific tone.
I miss a solitude that isn’t lonely. Company only highlights the disconnect. I’ve given up on the notion of being anything other than a novelty, fictional character, or consolation prize for the desperate. Authenticity is elusive.
I speak to no one. For no one. These words, like all words before them, fall into a bottomless void. I’ll fade out slowly and silently and be buried under the future with the rest of them.