Won't you take me home/ 'Cause lately I've been losing my own

I need to leave.

A respite, somewhere to rest my head. Not clear it. I don't want clarity, just some time to pause. Breathe.

I feel as if somehow, at some point I sacrificed a part of myself for compromise. The point I struggled to prove wasn't worth the petty arguments, or the discomfort, the silence, the tension. And so I let it go, brushed it off, at best, ignored it. I can't help but wonder now how much I may have given up of myself for the sake of peace.

London, Cairo, London, anywhere I can retreat on my own terms. I want mornings of silence with my thoughts but for the quiet melody left playing from the night before. Afternoons of ink smudges and crisp paper between my fingers. Conversations that steadily wind down into the early hours of the morning, scattered with lulls and pauses and effortless prose and rambles and meeting points. I want insight and outpouring and ceaseless wandering of words transforming into ideas and then returning as images, memories, still life captures. To feel the flow of creation at your fingertips or lips, the poetry of seamless thought, a notion worth more than a second's notice. Or perhaps, only that.

I thought I'd get a sign for something. I may have gotten a second one. But I can't trust my instincts anymore. Maybe that's growing up. More tact, less rash. More analysis, less action. Days of self-doubt, weeks without a trace of it.

I can taste the bitterness on my tongue. I need to get away before it engulfs me.