There

I wonder sometimes if you can long for something so ardently, and for such an extended period of time, that the longing becomes part of your everyday self, a vein of discontent threading your days.

I would so love to live where I was born, and it is more than likely that I never will.   That desire, unfulfilled, is with me always, so that I can never go anywhere without some part of me wishing I were elsewhere.

The love of place, stymied, is not unlike a haunting.  Flashes of the place I love visit me at least once a day, bubbling up from wherever they've been hiding, expanding until they burst.  

If I moved back, would I cease to be possessed?  Sometimes I think yes; sometimes I think no.  Most of the time, I know it doesn't matter.