Rumor says you're coming home. Says you went looking for answers and found them in the curve of the tide, and now you are bringing them back. I pace anxiously, as though nearness carried more weight than distance, as though any of my questions could be answered, too. Have I not been busy trying to make clear that which is muddled? Have I perhaps reached the same conclusions as you? Rumor says tonight we may get snow.
We are all disillusioned by the promise of our lives, the joys we expected, the chance to change a world or maybe just spend our time with something that moved us. Middle age reaches us in shades of meh, was this the struggle of every generation, or the fault ours for dreaming different to begin with? She says think of your earliest memories and all I can remember is sorrow.
Surely the wind whispered differently to you on your journey? Surely you return with a golden grain of Truth in your fist? No wonder my nerves hum at the knowledge of your return.
They're ready to tear those treasures from your hands.
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