Little Satellite

I want to vanish again. I want to up and leave once more.

Sooner or later this impulse always comes, enveloping itself over my heart and the membrane of my dreams.

I told my father that perhaps I’d settle somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, with all its Douglas firs and cornflower blue lakes. It’s mountain peaks.

More often than not, I dream of a little hamlet in England with cobblestone streets and wooden shutters. I would rent a one-room bedsit that looks over the village and befriend a cheesemonger.

So often I feel like a satellite, not quite apart of life. Running through the motions, but not tasting it. Not experiencing it. Always just skimming the surface.