I feel home in a weird way when I’m taking a walk down the rusty old rail line in the woods, or staring up at one of the foliage-riddled buildings that nature’s starting to take back around here.
It’s peaceful – for the most part, those places are silent save for the noise you bring, and walking around there is like watching a slow and solemn death – defiantly graceful despite you.
You feel as though something’s slipping around here, and you take that with you once you leave, and it stirs a little whenever you come back. I used to think it was a heightened awareness of our own limitation and finality, but nowadays I’m not so sure.
It’s nostalgia in a much less warm light, I think. Something that’s much harder to wrap into words.