Why is it people aren't satisfied with what they have? Why can't people just be happy with their cloudy days, their shitty jobs, their too-expensive haircuts? Why can't we all just sit under the sky, whether it's cloudy or not, and be thankful of it? Why can't we be glad that we even have jobs, or even can afford to have our hair cut? Why are people so greedy? Why do we keep wanting more and better, better and more? Why is nothing good enough for us?

When I sit somewhere new, I take a moment to breathe in the air. It's always different. When I sit in the forest, it smells like warm decay, like sunlight and grimy water and life. When I sit in the mountains, it smells cold and empty, moving so fast to get from nowhere to somewhere; it smells like heaven, somewhere no one and nothing can touch; it smells like isolation. When I sit on the beach, it smells like sand and salt, like brine and fish and the false sense of security; it's relaxing, like happiness and movement, but really, it's just another dangerous thing hidden under beauty.

How do I continue to be unsatisfied; how do I continue to want to breathe different air, with this broken, bleeding heart? How do I remember the smell of decay in the forest, of loneliness in the mountains, of danger at the beach, and still want to experience it all over again? How can I want to experiences the sharp cliffs hanging over a restless sea, the endless, chilly moors, the tangling mess of jungle? How can I want more when what I had broke me to pieces? How can the unknown be so tantalizing, yet so known?

What is this strange piece of alien landscape before me, then? What horrible, beautiful parody of something so perfect can both entice me and elicit no reaction out of me? What mix of death and pain, of life and mirth, can remind me of the proud craigs and the silent woods and the tenacity of the sea, yet look nothing like them? What hellish and heavenly body could possibly make me realize there is beauty in this world that I should see, but warn me to stay away, lest history repeat itself?

Where, my dear, will you have to travel in order to find peace and healing? Where will I have to go to cross the bridge from reality into imagination? Where, in this lackluster, cloudy sky is the way out of my hell? Where is the path from here to the alien land?

~Which way is up?