It transports you backwards, flowing through memories so distant they’ve felt like someone else’s. You feel like a kid again, open and pure, before life touched you in those fucked up ways that left you always a bit on the periphery of yourself. It promises your lovability, that want you stopped even letting yourself have as you trudged forward into the functions and barriers of selfhood. It is so inconvenient the way it tears down what you’ve built, so terrifying the way it whispers in and out of your most secret of hiding places. There’s no possible way this could be safe, and yet you find yourself, of your own will, traversing hell to make your way back to its embrace. Because nothing in this world could ever compare to the purity of its love, and even if it destroys you, it’s the price you’d pay for home.