old stories

I am lucky enough to be homesick for a place almost a thousand miles away.

I was there in my mind, and then I was there in person. I don’t know which was more breathtaking. It was a place where the mountains are so old that they almost breathe, and the rocks stand tall and story-worn like humans. Where old stories and legends could come true. The cracks in-between the fairy tales, the places of danger and mystery, the side-plots, where it always seems to be night but the air is hot and red from the monolithic sun. The stars are bright and old and the dusty earth sparkles beneath them.

Old things have histories, fingerprints from everybody who has touched them. Old trees have laid their roots in more than just soil. Old books tell more tales than their own. And in some places, if you’re lucky enough (or if the old tales are strong enough), you can know them and turn them into a story of your own. They live on in places where the world hasn’t changed, not yet. There are places where, when you step on the footprints from thousands of years, you find yourself embracing them, wrapping around them, realizing who you are and where your heart can stand on the earth and stretch far into space.

We’ll see creation come undone
These bones that bound us will be gone
We’ll stir our spirits ’til we’re one
Then, soft as shadows, we’ll be gone.

It stays with you. I have seen the sun rise and set on your face, and know it rise and set again. Once the mountains called my name, and I woke to find the dream was not different from the reality. You never need to worry about being forgotten. I believe that nothing falls apart without coming back together, and sure as the vast and open hills remember my name, I know I will return to all the places I have ever been homesick for.

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