Missing the Stars

I have this feeling in my chest. I can't put a finger on what it is, but I know what I want.

It's something to do with cool mornings and gentle wind, cloudy skies and birdsong. It's why I'm sitting in the grass today instead of on my bedroom floor. It's something I want to breathe into my soul, but when I inhale I find only the smell of warm grass. It's better than nothing, I guess.

I miss the stars. I can't see them the same at home.

I miss a lot of things.

Maybe I miss the water surrounding me, or journaling alone on the beach, or napping awkwardly sprawled across a kayak. Splashing my hands in the water. The river. The sun and the sand and the mud and the rocks. I miss being only a passenger to the water's destination.

Maybe I miss the feeling of being surrounded by ancient beings and spending days wandering through their domain. I miss running my fingers across their bark, awestruck by their size, age, sturdiness. Mountains. Wandering above the clouds. Brand new views and surroundings with every step I took.

I miss the kinds of things that calm me on the inhale and make me giddy with excitement on the exhale. 

I miss nature, mostly, and the grass in my backyard isn't quite cutting it for me.

Indoors is stifling. I want to wander, explore, appreciate. I want to stare at the stars and let them stare back and think about how the light I see is thousands of years old.

I want to see the small and intricate things and the sunlight through the trees.

I want to wake up in the cold knowing that there's something out there for me other than the walls of my room. Something worth getting up for.

There's so much world out there, and I want to exist in it. That's all.