Writing is so laborious lately, and i don’t know if this makes any sense, but here it is, Sunday Feb 5th, 2023.
I think i’m homesick, but not for a place. There hasn’t been a place in so long. I think i’m homesick for a feeling of comfort and being somewhere safe and warm in my mind, a feeling of intimate connected oneness. There isn’t any physical place to miss, and there hasn’t been one for at least 5 years. It isn’t Boston, it isn’t New Jersey, it isn’t Brooklyn (it never was). I think that it could be anywhere, while paradoxically being nowhere. I cant remember the last time i that i didn’t feel this way. I never feel at home anywhere, certainly not now where I am, as I try to describe this fairly intangible abstract concept.
Existential homesickness.
I was thinking of the idea of addiction as an attempt to try to crawl back into the warm comfort of oneness, or that feeling of being home, and it working at first but the the relief ultimately being so finite. Whatever pleasure you can grab onto is paid for tenfold in pain. for some reason your mind can only easily recall the pleasure, though.
i don’t know the answer to this. But i’m certainly seeking one.
This whole concept is something i return to over and over in my thought and writing, for as long as i can remember.
How do you go home?
