Here.

Sometimes, rarely, often
I think: I want to be anywhere but here.
I think: Please, take me away in a painless sort of transition of leaving, where heartache and headaches and late night ramblings only exist in forms of positivity (of which they are so rarely associated).
I think: This is too much, too large, too grand for a person so weak, so small, so insignificant as me to handle.
I think: What I wouldn’t do for this place to go away.
And then, sometimes, often, rarely, I think,
this place is me, and I am it.
It is laced with all parts of my being, as I am laced with all parts of its existence.
We have become one, me and this place,
and you cannot run away from that.

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