Never think

Do you know how you can never quite describe a feeling? And then you stop trying at all because not talking about feelings spares you having to ask about other people's feelings in return. Like some sort of emotional obligation. It's not like I am this heartless bitch. Mmm... I'm just a bit... detached. Mostly.
The point being, you know how leave a specific place, a physical place, a town, a country, a continent. And you live away for whatever, and you grow and you change and maybe it's for the better and maybe it's for the worse.
And then for whatever reason, a visit, a duty, a duty visit, you head back. And you realise that. It's the same old pervert that's running the shop down the road. The same old drunks walking stumbling into clubs, the same bus drivers, the same faces, names. The same, the same. It's like, no matter how much you changed and how much time has passed, you slip right in. Blend right in. Like you've never left. Like you're expected to still be the person you were before you left. Play the role. Static.
Some people call this routine, or pattern or comfort or home. This things never changing. This everything being so constant, so monotone, so the same.
Some people call it 'life'.
Other people, me, I call it claustrophobia.
Maybe the trick is to destroy your roots. Turn your past into a story. Maybe the point is to create our own unroutine. Where everything is not always planned. Maybe when you stop letting your upbringing condition you, not even the most boring of places and spaces will.
The sound of rattling cages is choking me up.