Searching

The scariest thing about going away, is finding you don't want to come back. Sometimes, you recognize that the place you so idealized was nothing more than a dream. However, possibly the most poisonous part would be coming back, and realizing that what you missed was nothing more than unchanging scenes, monotonous spaces, & lingering silences. The people you missed are all too much how you left them; every leaf in it's place and every building the same. It's the run; it's the wishing, missing, remembering that entices you. The memory is tainted, but you drink it so ravenously, with every spare breath, you gulp it. You believe it, because it's the only thing you know; it's the only thing you can hope for.

Then, you look for something more extravagantly fabricated. Molded inside your imagination, you look for the place that fits the description--trying to get closer and closer to the idea. Going away again, facing the risk again, you fly yet to find yourself slipping into adaptation, then anticipation, or better yet relapsation. Wanting to go back, you think about life moving on without you at the very place you were running from. Wherever you go, you want people to run, but you expect them to wait. However, you come back only to find a strange sense of disappointment to find things exactly and utterly at no pace. If only the place you've been so desperately become familiar with, would miss you and never be the same. What, precisely, can match the frame of your memory?

Keep searching.