I feel like I’ve never had a home, you know? I feel related to the country, to this country, and yet I don’t know exactly where I fit in… There’s always this kind of nostalgia for a place, a place where you can reckon with yourself. — Sam Shepard
When we leave this World behind, it moves on
All the simple mundane bits of life become beautiful
Places we craved to escape seem suddenly magnetized.
Windows reflect back at us like empty faces filled with regret
In past views, illogical love morphs to quiet obsession.
And remembering becomes ritual passed on to naive hands.
All our childhood plays out in front of us, like a record we want to repeat over and over. Could the notes ever sound sweet again?
Memories live in rooms wanting to be aired. If we share the stories with others, they are bound to fall like foreign language.
So we set our heart's recollections free in safer outlets. There they hide like horcrux.
No matter where we fly, we are never free of memory.
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