A sort of anxiety that hits you like a thunderstorm. It rumbles in your stomach like hunger, but hunger for a meal you’ve already eaten. You feel it still digesting, but still your stomach screams and stretches and yearns.
A sort of anxiety that doesn’t give regard to when or where. Much like other anxieties, but the triggers are everywhere, in the colors that remind you of the tapestries from home, or a smile just as crooked as that boy from high school.
I feel homesick a lot, but it isn’t longing to come home. It is a longing for a room that is painted pink with flowers, a longing for watching the last episode of that teve show for the first time and a longing for take-out indian food on Haight Street.
I feel homesick for feelings that I only knew then. I feel homesick for musical joy, rolling my saxophone along Poplar Ave. I long for crystal nights under the stars in Golden Gate Park. I long for wiped off kisses under the bridge in Kärrtorp. Sometimes I even long for the angst of reading Bukowski and thinking maybe I kind of knew what he meant.
It’s an anxiety that doesn’t give a shit, but it’s also a polite anxiety. Because even as you squelch and squeal from the ache that it gives, you can still feel that your stomach is so damn full of all these things you remember.



Fyll i dina uppgifter nedan eller klicka på en ikon för att logga in: Logo

Du kommenterar med ditt Logga ut /  Ändra )


Du kommenterar med ditt Google+-konto. Logga ut /  Ändra )


Du kommenterar med ditt Twitter-konto. Logga ut /  Ändra )


Du kommenterar med ditt Facebook-konto. Logga ut /  Ändra )


Ansluter till %s