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December 7, 2021

You can always visit but you can never go back.

Your mother and father are dead. Your tradition is empty. Neither has anything left to offer you anyways . They know nothing more about the world than you.

In fact you've outgrown them long before you were ready to admit it. You can't go back home. Going home is a regressive state of returning to adolescence.

An effervescent, eternal, damned place. A pleasure palace.

It's IPAs on the river, its mountain biking among the bears. It's late-night walks along the river, always safe, always sound, peculiarly pleasant.

I came home and there was nothing there. There was no wisdom. The pleasure palace revolted. The guards threw me out, spat on me.

I attempt to return to it again and again but it keeps its back turned on me. A slap on the wrist, handcuffed car ride home, numbing agent, snow globes, Peter Pan, but I thought I was Tinkerbell. But I must be Frida Kahlo, a staircase constructed without rail guards, precariously connecting me to Diego, the ultimate ugly beast.