(n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.
That’s the word. It kept me up recently. How can we yearn for anything other than a home to which we cannot return? Nothing is the same when it’s gone. Maybe some things, maybe. Family. The occasional thicker than water friends that become these timeless fixations, furniture in our minds and lives.
But plenty of great people and places fall to the wayside. A whole lifestyle, really. The very filter through which you see the world, thus defining it. Falling off your face slowly over time, like glasses, until you pick up a different pair, and then— well, now that’s who you are. Isn’t it?
I lost a lot of sleep over it. This used to be a really fucked up and ghostly notion that dangled in my periphery. I knew it was there and wouldn’t look, or did but saw something opaque and scary, not worth knowing. It’s not really worth being upset about. Maybe that’s inevitable. What can be resisted is the resisting. This is natural. Breathe calmly and become.
You’ll go under, like it’s some kind of anesthesiology, existential dentistry, like spiritual laughing gas for the absurdity of being this ever evolving being, shapeless, water in a cup in a room full of cups, sand on a coast effected by water that changes a little every day (sometimes without notice) until we are progressively eroded or pummeled by storms— sometimes grown. Sometimes battered. Diminished, or fortified. But always born new.
Keep laughing. Like pulling teeth from your head, it will only hurt a bit.