What is the feeling of finishing a book/film/series? Post partum depression? Separation anxiety? Le petite morte? Plain grief? Pain at the loss raw ripping disentangling of another world from your own. There are places I miss with inverse nostalgia, a going rather than returning. Numinous agape almost at your fingertips.
The feeling of putting your head out of a train window. Let go of understanding. There is understanding outside of the intellect accessible to us all if only we could let go. Let others fill the gaps and they’ll pour themselves in, untangling them is impossible. A lack of understanding is wilful, wisdom is the easy little death, allowing yourself to love is the only difficult step. Throw ourselves in the arms of stories and mythologise ourselves. Cover me in life.
The frustrating cry of playing games, “just love me love you”.