We miss being ruffians, going wild and bright,
in the corners of front yards, getting in and out of cars.
We miss being deviants.
They’ll find us here.
Here, here in the guest room,
Where we throw money at each other and cry.
(Reminiscent of the short stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald, anyone?)
Or perhaps it might be more accurately called “Displacement Syndrome”, I don’t know. Every time I leave a place for an extended period of time, and especially if I feel like I’m never coming back, I get a terrible sense of melancholy. It’s a deep aching, something that doesn’t cut sharply but makes me worry and shudder. I think somewhere, buried deep down, it’s a fear of not returning to a place that has come to mean something to me. I suppose it’s a fear of the unknown – subconscious, now brought to the surface – but still it frightens me, because in a way, the fear itself is unknown. I can trace the pattern, I feel it rising to the surface anytime I leave a place or a person behind, and in my head I can rationalize it, but I do not understand it. A friend of mine today told me she “hates her emotions.” Today, I sympathize. This strange fear of departure, of displacement, of abandonment, is unknowable. I can watch it develop but I cannot stop it.