i think a lot about leaving. i think a lot about leaving and burying myself in dirt, back into the bosoms where this life has sprung from in the first place. i think a lot about leaving and i contemplate letters and mail, if i'd leave one in people's doorsteps; keychains encased in stark white envelopes with seals of red or perhaps green or blue or of going without a goodbye at all, like i've evaporated or have slipped out unnoticed; just silence as a parting gift, with my bed made and my clothes still piled neatly in my closet. it is uncertain if this budding feeling stems from the constant finding of a place in this world, exhaustive, or if this is just because i simply think to leave is to be unshackled from the chains of things i cannot disclose. it is uncertain if this budding feeling stems from a yearning pressed in the depths of my heart, if it's a childhood robbed and is now taking toll, if it's just because of the songs i listen to. the only thing most definite, however, is that i do not apologize for wanting to leave.
