The Call

It is a sickness, similar to being laid up in a hospital bed with unfinished business. You left your oven on and you know it. The constant tug pulling you away from where you are. A place you do not wish to be. Any excuse seems legitimate.

There is no reprieve, no detox, no helpline. No friends to help with the itch beckoning you to your release. The friends are only enablers. Even in those moments of joy and excitement the memory seems dull and uneventful. Times spent around people numbingly tedious. Deep down, you want to enjoy those moments, but the oven is on. You left your home unlocked and your focus on the world around you fades.

The itch, the pull, the ever active light in your head. To be there in the cold while yearning for warmth. Surrounded by a safe place. To escape the relentless barrage of people breathing the same air, choking what oxygen is left. To be free of neon lights and unsmiling faces walking with no other care for the others who, blank-faced and emotionless, do the same. To be in that place again, to be in a place of non-judgement, to be free in that vast expanse of nothing. Those are the thoughts that dominate.

Until then, walking head down with my hands in my pockets, you will know what I am thinking and where I want to be. That person hiding in his cloak in public with the end goal of casting it off. To be who and what I really am, even though I might not know what that is. Even with age, I should know how to block it out, but I can not. A burden I have carried since childhood still wants me, still calls.

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