Skeleton Song

I want to go home.

I am a traveller, a visitor of worlds, swimming in vast oceans of light and song and memory. I love my travels, for they make me wealthy beyond measure. But wealth is heavy. Sometimes you want to sit and go through your pretty things, admire the way the light glints off their polished surfaces. But other times you want to put them away, cut the rope and let yourself float away.

I want to go home.

I long for the familiar scent of damp earth and the promise of more rain, the taste of the air, the sound of voices I know. I long to sleep in my own bed and wear my own clothes and open my eyes to stare at my own ceiling.

I want to go home.

And I want it to feel like home when I get there, not like something I knew lifetimes ago, some stolen half-remembered treasure, some word on the tip of my tongue that I will never quite catch no matter how hard I try. I want it to feel like home, and it won’t. Ever. You can’t borrow someone’s soul and wear it on your back like a jacket. You will always know it doesn’t fit. You can lie to the world, but you will know, and the truth will burn you.

I want to go home…

…But there is no home to go to. So what must I do? I must craft a new home from the threads of stories, from the snippets of conversation I stole from elders in my childhood, from my blood, and bones, and the things I know in the deepest parts of me, the parts too dark to be civilised and too pure to be chained.

What is lost is lost, and wanting will not bring it back.

I wrestle with this giant truth, kicking and biting and drawing blood. Every night we dance like this, like ravenous warriors, like silent predators. And every morning, weary with death and tears and unravelling, I burrow deep into this truth and let it soothe me, because it is my friend, and my nightmare, my angel and my nemesis. I must love it, and loathe it, and live with it. I must bear it because as much as it pains me, as much as I grieve…

…It is true.

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