i miss so many places but i really don’t miss any places at all.
because missing a place is really a substitute for missing a group of people, a mindset, a time - an era of your life defined by your surroundings because they were different than anything else you’ve ever known. going back to the place won’t satiate the longing or quell the nostalgia, because no matter what, things have changed, and people have moved on and the place won’t be how you’ve left it. sometimes returning to the city or the country just adds to the emptiness of knowing that you can never return to those specific trips that shaped you; you’ll never recreate those memories fading ever-distant into your past. you can’t tug at the ever-flowing current of time to get just a few seconds back of that feeling of truly living that was inspired by the confluence of stars that brought you, those people, that place, those circumstances together all at once.
so the only thing to do is keep chasing, chasing that wanderlust, collecting more and more experiences that you’ll then miss equally sharply, leaving a trail of goodbyes and adding to the ever-growing list of places you miss, experiences you ache to replay, moments that define who you are. those places are home, even if they will never exist again the way they did for you then.
i wrote a note on my phone at midnight, by marit b. (via annezk
Perhaps the most terrifying moment of my life
was the discovery of my parents’ fallibility,
when my father ceased to be a hero and
my mother a queen and
something vile and cruel writhed in my throat,
something they could not vanish,
something they could not eviscerate
with militaristic commands and gentle coaxing,
for this was not a monster under the bed,
this was not an over-zealous imagination;
this was real, this was growing deep
into their daughter’s bones.
And I saw them, finally, as they really were,
stripped of the golden armor
of childhood naivety that had given them
immunity to the failures of humanity
in my too-wide, too-innocent eyes.
My father aches for control,
craves it in the softness of his
He doesn’t know how to be without;
he is a scared, small man
who doesn’t realize that his hands
are made for destruction,
made for ripping out hearts and
crushing them into dust.
My mother is a child,
with an unnecessary temper
that could rip teeth out of the skull.
She fears change,
fears it like death,
and she has reached the end
of growth in the middle of her life.
These were my beginnings,
these are what I have stemmed from,
and I love them, I do;
I love them with the decaying tenderness
that is owed to them,
that will weather over time,
for it is the stone and they are the sea,
and the ocean is unyielding,
even to the frailty of the human heart.
I love them in a different way than I did once-
no longer god-fearing and awed,
but the love of camaraderie,
of those trying to scrape by,
of those trying to make it out alive.
Emily Palermo, The Age-Old Story of a Daughter Outgrowing Her Parents.
"People confuse the source of their happiness. They become temporarily happy when they get a new car, or a new house, or a new marriage. And they think that they are suddenly happy because of this new thing in their life. In reality, they are happy because for a brief moment, they are without desire. But then soon another desire comes along. And the search continues."