hiraeth
[hɪraɨ̯θ, hiːrai̯θ]
longing for a home you cannot return to or never really was
imagine; the trampoline has long since stilled. your body lies flat and your hands are palms down on the hot surface. the sky is wide open and empty. you're thinking about where the air you breathe ends and the sky begins and where the sky ends and space begins. there's no limit, is there? you're breathing space. when the sky darkens, no clouds appear. every time you blink a star appears. the outside of your vision is littered with a graveyard of stars. soon you can see the moon right above you. it's full and you can see the face. now, when you blink you see something new. every time your eyes shut, you feel warm and light. the trampoline has ceased to exist. you can hear singing but you're alone. it's the stars that are singing. when you open your eyes all you see is the moon, and you're laying down, and it's quiet. your bones are cold. you close your eyes for longer each time. it feels so familiar, like someone you loved and whose face you have forgotten. it's not gone but it's not there. somewhere in your body, somewhere that doesn't exist starts to ache. it aches for the singing of the stars. a new star still appears every time you blink, and the sky looks like tv static. you aren't here but you aren't home, either. you just want to go home, don't you? if only you knew where that was. you're longing for a home in the stars that you cannot return to, and it might not have ever existed.
YOU ARE READING
short stories by snowman
Historia Cortait feels so familiar, like someone you loved and whose face you have forgotten. somewhere in your body, somewhere that doesn't exist starts to ache. it aches for the singing of the stars. you just want to go home, don't you? if only you knew where t...
