You can say whatever you want about liking a given
location—there’s no place like home; a
house is what you make of it; home is where the heart
is—but I can’t say anything but that the air in
some places is a being of many arms that knows what it likes to
hold. My small town in Canada pinches sleeping pills so that
everything glides by in a lull, a hazy dance where the steps
don't really matter as long as they are close enough. Home
may be sweet home, but sugar, especially that of this sickening
variety, has never suited my palate. I long for a day when I can
ride the oceans or glide on Ouranos’ cloak and find a place
that isn’t a sweet home, but one that harbours batteries,
electrifying the atmosphere and throwing long-forgotten spices
into the clouds. I want to live in a place that doesn’t tie
my legs to bars but instead encourages them to wander and grow
thick callouses from dancing barefoot in green grass. My heart
isn’t here, and I want to find out where it is.