A longing rises within my breast, a far sickness for a place I do not know. It is an ever-growing longing for lands distant and foreign. I close my eyes, and I can not see them. It remains hidden. Yet, it calls to me.

My bones ache. My legs beg to stretch their stride soil I can not envision, and my toes to splay in unfamiliar grasses. My hands desire to reach out and touch the unknown, to curl hesitant fingers about exotic flora and draw alien fragrances to my breath.

My hearth and home are here.

I should cling to its comfort, to its safety. Yet this siren call haunts my spirit and torments my throat with tension. I am an empty vessel poured full with a feeling of belonging to a place I am estranged from until my belly aches - and yet shame, a strange gnawing of sadness, a regret of a path I have not strode.

I restlessly rake my nails across the table's face, and my eyes return repeatedly to the door as my thoughts travel beyond that shield of wood.

I feel tears wet my face in peculiar frustration.

What is the purpose of this anguish? Is it a promise or a punishment?

I listen more closely, yearning, loyal, begging with all my thirsting soul for its reveal.

Silence.

Please... please... where are you? Summon me to you; here I am!

I will be obedient to the call. I promise. I will find my feet...

I will go.


Penned by my hand on the 9th of Sarapin, in the year 932 AF.