On the Homesick
I’m writing a book for my 40th birthday, my generation, Millennials, are middle aged. Nostalgic and accelerationist, we’re a taupe generation, a minor band named The Blands—or The Mediocres even—, a Facebook building, Fleabag making, childhood failing hot mess. The aliens sent from a whole other century; the vessel’s broken and now we can’t go back. I shouldn’t say we, really, I don’t think there is a we, I seed a we, you seed a we, we’ll see if we will ever be, there’s so many different ways to unfulfill, there’s so much coding going on so we cross paths. Each in her own mind, there’s so many different ways to secede and then to unsecede.
Even if there is little cohesion, you and I might learn from each other what’s true. I’m an unrestrained version of my generation. I have no country, no kin, no pension. I pace brand new carpets and sink into old thoughts, there’s nothing under my feet that could crack. You’re pulled by some force that destroys what you’ve left behind, a call that goes mum whenever you try to call back. But it’s just homesickness, that’s all, for ship and for crew, just someone standing still with what’s left in her mind.
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