I'm thinking about home. Home as a concept, home as a place, home as a troubling indefinable illusion. The word reveals a bouquet of dull sensations, sweet and heavy like ripe fruit. On this rainy night they are apparitions all around me. They cling to the walls and watch me mutely, waiting for a trigger that can set them wailing like banshees. No such luck.
I turn the word over in my palm and study it with numb detachment. Its edges are worn soft by use and it feels nice to hold, but I can't figure out where to put it. Does it belong behind me, somewhere I can turn to, a place which exists when I remember it and recedes into the distance as I move forward? Or maybe it belongs in front. Maybe it exists ahead of me, waiting to be revealed at some arbitrary moment in the future. I place it in my lap and turn it over a few times, feeling it out. It feels okay, but the word is humming. No, this is good now, but this is not it. It is restless in my hands.
The word is restless and I am restless. I vibrate with a thousand possibilities and toss the word onto the floor, absentmindedly moving on to new vocabulary. They tell me I have a short attention span, and they're right, but some of us were just born to move.