Homesick

As I laid in my dark room on the bed, hands folded over my abdomen, meditating (or as close to the act as I can get) in stillness and silence, I—just for a brief moment—resided in my soul. And I have never felt an ache as profound as I did then. Detached (or something like it) from my human body, I could feel the amorphous light inside of me, and what it told me—in so few words as none at all but, instead, a feeling—both haunted and enlightened me the same. So much so that I am left with an odd, all consuming sense of grief even as I type this hours later.

“I want to go home. I want to be a part of the universe again.”

I knew it wasn’t insisting I die or kill myself or anything like that. But I felt it pulling, as if to escape my body—longing to return to from which I came; a feeling comparable to when you wake from a dream that you’re desperate to fall back into—so utterly desperate that you try to will yourself back to sleep.

It was a beautiful thing, really. I understood in that moment, with clarity and omniscience, that I simply want to be the sky again and not just beneath it.