Call of the Moon

I can feel it, strongly, for some reason. The call of the moon, lifting me off the surface. Whispering to me, that, despite what I know to be true, the place that I call "home" is no more than a fleeting mirage. That I am floating, weightless in the void, with nothing to grasp besides the possessions I carry on my back. I cannot be "saved" from existence, only pretend to become accustomed to it.

I am the wolf in the desert, the star that shed its orbit. I am the bird who clipped her own wings, the caterpillar who refused to emerge.

Perhaps this is the fate of those who have cast themselves out from whence they came. Without the illusion of "the original place" to return to, is it impossible to stand on solid ground? What opulence it must be, to believe there exists a primordial place of belonging. That, regardless of how small or large it may be, it will save you from the despair of a moment too-far-removed.