I long for a place I cannot go. A place intangible and distant. A place I call My Home.
I miss playing in the shadows between the trees, their leaves the colors of apples and pumpkins and chocolate. The scent of cinnamon and spices clinging to my body as I run and laugh wildly through the darkness between the beautiful trees.
I yearn for the spaces in the static on a channel long forgotten. The loud, droning buzzing that numbs my form as I dance between the particles of color. The white noise surrounding me, engulfing me, setting me simultaneously at edge and calm. The air tastes like needles pricking my tongue. I laugh at the strange sensation.
I crave the creaks in the floorboards of dusty, rotting attics. The room heavy with the scent of old books, old toy, old memories. Where the shadows meld with everything, covering all in their warm embrace. I can feel the ghosts of memories dancing around, milling about, restlessly. My frame contorts as I wiggle through the relics of some strangers life, the old wood brushing my skin like a paintbrush.
I desire the wide open fields or corn and wheat where I can roam and wander endlessly. The greenery grabbing my arms, my legs, begging me to sit and stay a while and listen to their stories. The fallen plants crunching as I travel over their remains. The wind whispers through the gaps between each plant, singing me gentle lullabies.
Above all, I wish for rain. The soothing drops against my figure as thunder cracks loudly and lighting brightens the sky like monochromatic fireworks. I splash through the puddles as I run, dancing to the rhythm of the storm. The sent of wet leaves, wet mud, wet everything entangles me in its grasp. The falling water runs down my face like tears of joy and everything feels like a symphony in my heart and soul and I sing as loud as the wind gushing through the treetops.
I long for a place I cannot go. A place intangible and distant. A place I call My Home.
