How many words can be written about it, this quiet restlessness that sits in your chest and aches with every breath?
You’ve tried to talk softly to it. You’ve tried to encourage it’s efforts and quiet it’s soft screams.
You’ve left for weeks at a time just to escape it but it’s always there riding with you in the front seat, fiddling with the window button, fixing the rearview pointing out things behind you that you thought you’d left behind.
You’ve gone to the woods, to stare up at the trees that envelope you, you pray for fog to make the feeling go away or at least to match the color of it.
It stays with you and asks why, over and over and over like some child and you’ve told it just be quiet, you don’t how many times.
As much as you try to ignore it, it’s with you every morning in the soft light and at this point it’s more of a companion than anyone you’ve ever met.
It’s the one thing that’s stayed with you over the years. It’s the thing that makes your eyes heavy, that makes you try to make the things that you want, that calls out to you as you try to find the dark at night.
It’s the wanting, it’s the desire for the things you’ve never had, for the comfort of being alone and for a girl to rest her head on your chest.
You carry on though.
You wake up every morning not because you have to but because it’s what you do.
You live every day waiting for the chance to see the land of dreams again to grab a hold of something there that has eluded you in the normal light of day.
It sounds sad, but it’s better than that. It’s quiet and it’s comforting, sometimes it’s cold but it’s fine because you prefer the cold. If you could live somewhere without the sun beating down on the back of your neck, that would be fine.
It’s a friend more than anything now. That longing for something you aren’t sure you want anyway.
Really, is there any other way?