It is not like you remember it, they say. It is even darker than you recall.
So instead you get snippets and shapes and songs and scenes, things that you remind of instead of making new memories from. Once every two, three years you find a spot that could be like those other places, the places you remember or think you do, but none of the faces are ones you recognise and similar to is not the same as.
Nothing is ever the same, you remember, and no memory is the truth.
What does it mean to be from a place, anyway. What does it mean to be defined by the places you’ve left. What if you keep trying to go back.
How long is too long and how long is long enough, and how do you know the difference.
will burn out
and then what
like a flag
like the ocean
I can’t sleep
but the city I love
can’t wake up
— from Insomniami by Ariel Francisco