Homesick

It's quite laughable, actually.

Hurt.

But in the most ludicrous ways. Reasons most deserving of a good malicious laugh. Mirthless, the universe mocks me, scolds me. "What a silly girl, what a foolish heart she has upon her sleeve." 

And the universe is not wrong. What a foolish, wistful girl I am, scorned by the earth I live on. What a yearning I have in the depth of my soul, what an unquenched thirst, forever more manifesting in my mind. What would I need to do to accept the way things are? What do I need to do to forget whatever past life my mind lived, lives? There's something else, I know there is, my mind goes there all the time. I'm not there to witness those moments, but they're so close, I can feel it. I can feel it lingering every time I sit in deep thought. I think of all the places I've gone, all the things I've done in a day, and then think of my time spent in that place. I think it naturally, as if it was no different to my work, my school, my writing. I double take, I catch myself and wonder what place it was that I went to. I know somewhere in my heart that all of this life is a stalling film to pass the time. I know it isn't the main part of my existence. It can't be. It can't. 

My world is a wonderful place, full of wonderful things. I can't take you there, I can't even go back myself, but the least I can do is tell you all about it. In my world, people wouldn't recognize a car or a phone or any part of our modern lifestyle. In my world, people work hard to provide for themselves, and they flourish. Their sons and daughters work hard out in the mountains, then come back to prepare food. The sons go and wash their clothes by the riverside, the daughters work up a fire in the common area. They gather together at the end of the day, everyone in the tight-knit villages, and they sing. The sound drifts up and fills the night, and the laughter and music doesn't die until long past witching hour. Those talented with instruments play, those able to dance gladly do, and those with magic in their fingers send fire and sparks up into the sky, manipulating the elements to dance along with them. There never was a happier time.

In my village, I have a home at the top most crook of the mountain. I look upon the village at night sometimes, seeing the fires burn bright and hearing those voices sing up to the heavens. I often fly, fly over the village and perch myself closer, for a better view. I like to join them, but enjoy watching and considering just as much. Basking in the sound of well being and stability. 

In my home I have magic in my fingers, too. I open them wide and can twist air into all sorts of shapes. I beckon the flowers to bloom more exuberantly, and they do. I urge the rain to fall and give them a drink, and it forms right around my fingertips. Obediently, gravity submits and allows me to step out off my little perch without harm coming to me in any way. I let myself fall down, down towards the ground, the gravity slows my landing as easily as if it read my mind.

In my home, magical  things happen. Mysterious things, beautiful wondering things.