I’m not sure where this longing comes from. With a lazy enough day it pops up as a drift through the open door and shreds you up enough to give up closing up.
Glossing over whatever pixels. Left behind by yourself. Leaving behind a whisper for a trail.
The closest description is reaching swing-set heights only to see the Ferris wheel. Not that you were particularly attached to the bird-eye view of the playground. Not at all. And yet that Ferris wheel shows there’s a whole city to look over.
But once you pay the fare, once you are suspended at the Ferris wheel apex looking down the city, only then does the ache stir deeper. Do you hope to be on the ground now?
Getting off that Ferris wheel to find shadows which swallow you up. Long shadows for streetlights and hollowed open signs hanging. A dull luminescence from your iris for each store passing.
Swivel in and out whatever shopping districts, food districts. Cold skin and dry cheeks, almost cracking.
It all leads up to entering your studio apartment with the easel poised but the palette all dried up. Eyes dried up.
What would you begin to paint? So the ache begins once more.
You’d paint that evening, probably. You’d paint this post. And you just aren’t sure if it is even worth looking at. Would such things just dig the ache in deeper?
A balcony breeze never sounded more comforting.
A dance for one.