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Feb. 20th, 2006 03:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stillaneI'm missing the desert so badly tonight I ache. It's a good ache, though.
It's bizarre, given where I grew up and spent most of my life, but I was never home until I went west. For the last day or so all roads seem to lead back there, and my chest feels hollow with the want of it.
Consider this therapy.
In my head, it's still summer there. The air smells clean and exactly like the color of sage, and there are so many stars it makes you dizzy to look up. You make your own constellations because the stories up there are too many and too large for the myths that already are. The breeze is warm and soft, and it's so quiet you think you're the first person to walk here ever. The tin can you stumbled over yesterday gives the lie to that, but the night air whispers low and sweet and you'd rather believe what it tells you anyway. The sweat on your skin is dry, and the sand is all over you. You stopped feeling it a while ago, and it's just the part of you that meets the land now. There is just enough water left from the day to dribble it over your hands without guilt. You run dripping fingers through your hair, the few drops that make it through to your scalp tingling with their rarity. The bandana goes into your pocket for the night, hair teasing just this side of pain against the red tips of your ears. The soda burns perfectly all the way down your throat, scratching the itch that water slid past all day. The voices come to you on the woodsmoke, a little rough and dark, wise. Stories about moths and dragons and crazy women. Whales in the desert, and tiny little horses on too many toes. Someone sings a few bars of the song that played five times last week in town, someone else counters with Johnny Cash. We know why there were none of us in Egypt for ten years, and why birds learned to fly.
Tonight I would like to.
I'm not as sad as this makes me sound, I don't believe. Just... melancholy, and impatient to go home. I got the invitation today. Just a few more months now.
It's bizarre, given where I grew up and spent most of my life, but I was never home until I went west. For the last day or so all roads seem to lead back there, and my chest feels hollow with the want of it.
Consider this therapy.
In my head, it's still summer there. The air smells clean and exactly like the color of sage, and there are so many stars it makes you dizzy to look up. You make your own constellations because the stories up there are too many and too large for the myths that already are. The breeze is warm and soft, and it's so quiet you think you're the first person to walk here ever. The tin can you stumbled over yesterday gives the lie to that, but the night air whispers low and sweet and you'd rather believe what it tells you anyway. The sweat on your skin is dry, and the sand is all over you. You stopped feeling it a while ago, and it's just the part of you that meets the land now. There is just enough water left from the day to dribble it over your hands without guilt. You run dripping fingers through your hair, the few drops that make it through to your scalp tingling with their rarity. The bandana goes into your pocket for the night, hair teasing just this side of pain against the red tips of your ears. The soda burns perfectly all the way down your throat, scratching the itch that water slid past all day. The voices come to you on the woodsmoke, a little rough and dark, wise. Stories about moths and dragons and crazy women. Whales in the desert, and tiny little horses on too many toes. Someone sings a few bars of the song that played five times last week in town, someone else counters with Johnny Cash. We know why there were none of us in Egypt for ten years, and why birds learned to fly.
Tonight I would like to.
I'm not as sad as this makes me sound, I don't believe. Just... melancholy, and impatient to go home. I got the invitation today. Just a few more months now.
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no subject
Date: 2006-02-23 05:23 am (UTC)Also, hello. :)
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Date: 2006-02-23 06:32 am (UTC)Am going to hop online, but only with the caveat that I can stay for no more than an hour. Or maybe two.