by The Dreamer

today my skin is crawling with the uneasiness of wanting to go home, almost as if i’m  stuck at a party and the feeling of something wrong and uncomfortable wraps itself around me and are my eyes are on the doorknob of the exit, willing it to turn and to open and to compel me out so that i can breathe. my bones feel itchy and light and wind-borne. it’s almost as if there’s something alive under me, waiting to break out from the surface of my skin, tearing me inside out like a wind-up present emerging from its wraps.

this is ironic, because i’m typing this sitting on my desk, right next to my bed. i’m home. why does it feel like i’m not?

is it possible to feel homesick for a place that cannot be located on google maps?

did you mean: suspended in a concept that can be sought after in the times when you’re keeling over so much in laughter that everything dissolves away and your eyes are blinded by white light and spots and your stomach clenches or in other words—a self-imposed surreality?

related to your frantic searches: waking up just before the world does, eyes half-lidded, heart half-lidded, thoughts and dreams and memories spilling over through the opening. talking about the future like it’s already real. the rain on my skin, thunder in my chest. sleeping for twelve hours — 720 precious minutes of bliss, 43200 seconds of being alive. then waking up—720 precious minutes of blurred edges, 43200 seconds of mechanical breathing. 

see also: this song dancing across the expanse of my mind. words that don’t make sense, being possessed.