A Lack of Senses

You had so many ideas about what this is supposed to look like, feel like, and taste like.

A tiny hint of ache, just enough to inspire you to keep vomiting words out of your fingers; smells and tastes like nectar to keep the butterflies around and alive; robust enough to protect you from the occasional windstorm; and just as earthy as the pétrichor to remind you the comfort of home.

But it’s not always like that, is it?

Sometimes you’re offered too much that you no longer have an empty vessel to accept it all—and you’re tempted to blame yourself for seemingly not appreciating how much you’re already given.

And your front yard garden is filled with scattered remains of rotten petals, all from the dying trees you can’t keep saving, and it’s quite a conspicuous display for every passerby to see.

Those passersby that would try to convince you that you should stop seeking. That your clock has run out, and the bed was already made. That you can’t roam outside past midnight, and your sleeping gown was not meant for strolling outdoors in the muddy grassland.

They thought your house was a glasshouse that they could peek into whenever they wanted. But it was merely a fort with perplexing facades and multifaceted entrances, and they could never interpret its quandary—because even we, cannot.

I had so many ideas about what this is supposed to look like, feel like, and taste like.

And it was a compound of different faces, histories, recollection—yet never one with them all.

It’s a little sad that some are no longer, maybe for the better, but I’d be lying to say I haven’t thought about them since.

Even if it’s just a random band name nobody else recognizes in the middle of a hall, or an unlucky year of never having the perfect chance to say hello.

But my clock has run out, and the bed was already made.

So I would probably sleep inside tonight.

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