She travels through uncharted woods,
And she thinks she's found a new world,
Away from the noises of reality,
Away from today.
She breathes in the fresh air,
She watches the leaves, green and brown, fall,
She listens to the crunch of twigs under her feet,
And she builds a new home in her head.
She's happy and at peace for some time,
But she misses the pull of reality,
The noise that somehow meant she was living,
Or at least alive in the same world as everyone else.
The loneliness pulls her now,
Further into the wood,
And the home in her head becomes messy,
And she misses the feeling of mortality.
She misses the despair that comes from longing;
She misses the yelling and the forgiveness that showed her the world still cares.
Loneliness in a wasteland is eternally worse than being surrounded in a wasteland.
The quiet gets too loud to handle.
It may be masochism,
Surrounding ourselves with noise and despair
Just to feel the bliss of love and laughter when the storm fades.
Or it might be human nature, an uncharted territory in itself that we eternally cross,