Every day, my longing for a certain place and a certain way of life becomes sharper and stronger.
It frightens me sometimes. How intensely it burns inside me, that sometimes I feared it would burst out of my skin like a supernova.
Most of the time it is quiet, becoming visible only when I catch myself wiping a persistent dampness from my face as I lay in bed, fighting insomnia, worrying about too many things, wishing for a way out of everything. Or a way in. Because in many cases I have always been an outsider, caught forever on the fringe of Things, passed over.
I yearn for --