Wanderlust, I don’t care if I am never able to travel or explore the earth. I do, though, desire to explore life and what I have with and within me in depth. I fall in love with pieces of paper and stones, taking certain furniture with me everywhere I live. Wanderlust, to desire and throb for a searching, for a roaming, to see and find beautiful things, to lust after that moment when the sunlight hits the city a particular way, when all the stars align which makes your heart thump, tears well and lip quiver.
The drive home, the last pages of your favourite book, a fucking perfect song, it is these moments we all are in search of. Some of us are awake to it, others are already immersed in it and others are so drowned by hopelessness that they forget it even existed.
It’s like my chest has arms or tentacles and just want to embrace the earth, the sun rays, and all the people I come across. As I lie on the grass my chest hugs and kisses the ground, lovers that will finally become one when I am buried. The arms within my chest will turn to sprouts and make mud into meadows, dirt into forests where the birds of the air can rest their wings and dream of all the beauty of the earth.
I pine for and feel beauty, for the perfection of green and purple and orange and blue. The world swells and it seems like it all breathes, my heart taking the form of the universe and pulsating through. My blood vessels morphing into branches of the peppercorn tree I lie under.