I forget the little luxuries of returning to where my parents live.
The… not the silence… but the feeling of isolation that slowly arises from the continual nudging of the wind against the walls as it flows over the nub of a hill that our house is perched upon. The omnipresence of the outside, even when I’m mostly not outside while living here.
When I walk outside in the middle of the night and the sky blazes at me. The house is far enough out from the edge of wherever that the sky has transformed from a container into something like a wilderness to look out into and yet it also stares back. Looking up in that moment is when I do feel like I’m afloat on some ship a-sail in a black sea.