Nostalgia

The problem with having had a life full of beautiful, inexplicable moments is that you've got that standard to compare the rest of your shitty life to.

My heart and mind are rebelling. I want everything I miss, and I want it now, just like a petulant child. Mostly I think I want those Sunday afternoons back, when we lazed around with no agenda, no purpose. Or when I went out into the woods and became something more than myself until the color of the sunset and the smell of the earth and the experience of a snowfall so absolutely silent that your ears roar with the sound of each snowflake resting on your frozen hair and bared, vibrating skin blend together into a tangible something that you can't find anywhere else. It's the taste of your own existence, and it has no metaphor, no simile, no name.

I love words, but there are some moments when they can fail you so spectacularly. I am unfaithful to my calling.

All I can say, really, is that I miss it. The city weighs on my heart. Even the lake is fettered by streetlights, safe, contained, and heartbroken.