Frail Refutation

I would leave, but I don't know a better place to live in this world, at this hour, during these wretched days. I've never left a place without first having a vision of where to go. I couldn't even consider another life without the hazy hope of a better place to dwell & wander around in circles. I have no other city on the hill. No other language I'd like to hear & recoil from not in horror of the language itself, but in the self-realization that I have no will to let it speak through my soul, to be possessed by it, housed within it. No, I've been suckling too long on the mother tongue: my mouth is petrified according to its sometimes dour tonalities, its wave-like pulsations & phrasal fluidity. Where would I go? Where would I begin again? Armed only with the knowledge that I can abandon any place without reason or that I can forget as easily as I can walk away & that both come second-nature to me? I would leave, but I don't know where else I would suffer so gracefully, where else I could learn the art of careless living, where patterns fail to apply, where lightness of being is passed around on a mirror, where I could spend months anticipating the next transformation & realize that I just underwent a dozen of them.