I knew this would have happened: the insistent longing, tugging at me, pulling at me. It's why I avoided it, evaded it, tried pretending it wasn't there. For the longest time, I thought digging my heels into the ground to slow down where I knew it was taking me would somehow work. Oh, and it has, but with that trail of upturned soil left behind, if I look, I can see how far I have come, and now I am here.
Where am I, I don't know. I knew I would reach here one day, and here I am, at a place so instinctively familiar, a place I have only seen in dreams, in nightmares, in that dark alley existing when I close my eyes so tightly making that secret wish. But when I look at where I am and what has brought me here, I am overwhelmed by a sensation that pulls me in every direction, I am blinded by a light so bright, I lose every sense, even of who I am.
But I am not here alone. In this spiralling deluge that drowns me, in the torment and torrent pulling every which way, in the feeling of endlessness, in the perpetual fall of motion, there is constancy, calm. I would not be here, if not for having been alone. But I am here, a bittersweet anguish, a torment, a sadness that amazingly is inexplicably intertwined with this happiness.
