I don’t long for a place. You can adapt to almost anyplace so it’s not so much about a longing for a place. I long for a time. I long for the blur to clear, the pace to slow to a kind of mental serenity. A singular inner voice that makes sense. At least on the inside. I’ve given up on the outside, random voices, they change too much, swayed by fad or fear or apathy. I long for a time I’ve fabricated in my fantasies a time that focuses into clarity, flowing like a fresh mountain stream. If the blur slows or even stops I might achieve that. It might make sense.

I’ve tried picturing this time. literally trying to pick out different past eras, ones that offer more of what I understand. None of these eras are set in the future. The future is too hectic, too compressed, too unclear; filled with too many separate voices, billions of separated realities and no like-minded meaning. Besides, there’s still more to learn from the past, more to learn and not enough time in the process; no time in the present.