The yearning for home.

and the lies I tell myself.

Author in image.

I sit by the window and desperately try to be at home,

and to find an ambiguous intersection of two worlds somewhere.

The otherworldly and the smut.

Maybe its in the flight of birds or in the hurry of the pedestrians I see every day -

back and forth, back and forth.

Maybe its in the warm sepia sun that floods my couch,

or maybe in the books that stare at me insolently.

Maybe its in the dust that settles on the window sill -

so stubborn, so slow.

Or in the smoke that hovers above the buildings -

dark sooty swirls.

I am home.

This is it.

There is no homesickness.

There is no yearning.

Some lies are so brutally beautiful, so deeply fragile.

I should be in a toxic relationship with these lies, I tell myself.

I realize I already am.

I love them so much I want them to go away,

as far as possible. That’s it.

Then I can be at home.