The black bile of sadness seems more steadfast;
Fear more hysterical;
Loss more penetrating;
Indecision more weighted;
Dissatisfaction more frustrating;
A falling out with a friend more dispiriting;
A fight with a spouse more turbulent;
An argument with a sibling or parent more significant.
You can have a bad day, or a bad couple of weeks, and...fuck...all you can think about is being on a flight back through the looking glass where the strata of context fit together like the most perfectly matching puzzle pieces. You want to be anywhere but in this wonderland where everything feels slightly off and the layers of environment that surround you do not comfort you or anchor you.
But you also recall that you´ve felt here more than you´ve felt anywhere.
The spectrum of human emotion more extensive.
The repertoire of human experience more complete.
The panopticon of your mind less foggy. Maybe.
Or maybe all of this added junk of another universe has just bifurcated your mind into two incomplete parts.
Sometimes I envy people who have never left home.
Ok, maybe a lot.
"The Uncertain Stability of Two Subjects in a Catastrophe" and "The Modern Goddess of Satirical Mutilations" from Flickr by DerrikT