you're awfully intimidating, blogspot. i'd much prefer a different writing platform; such as one made with those trees i so like to cuddle and save... recycled ones. but until then. when everything is lonely i can be my own best friend. do you think this should be true? should I be entirely content with all of my material possessions and my own head and heart left to keep me company in this space? i think home is whatever makes you feel safe in it's presence. whatever makes you feel as though you're apart of something big, something great, something unified even when it's torn apart in loving chaos. in my ideal home we do honesty. we do safety underneath the rubble left behind by verbal and situational bombs. we do things for love and not as a servant to our own fears. maybe my home is purely imagined. maybe i've searched for it for twenty two years. searched for examples. searched for models among my family, and perhaps they provide a starter home, the bare essentials, the magnet whose methods you don't necessarily agree with but by force and feeling return to time and again. a starter home before you've created a real one. until you find one that's for you that fits around you like a familiar page of your favorite piece of high lighted literature. i've searched for it in people, searched for it in my mind, searched for it in the places life's map led to and yet never seen it played out before me as something tangible. i've never reached to touch it for fear of the empty spaces i know exist at the end of my fragile fingertips. adaptable fragile fingertips? maybe home is another person. maybe home isn't family made or given at birth or a safety net or something you can always go back to. maybe home is the places and the people you belong to at any given time. maybe home is a permanent fixture. maybe it needs to be built with experienced hands that i don't yet have. maybe my hands are too soft, not yet calloused and wrinkled with the weight of time baring down upon them like a heavy book. if i could create it i would. a place that i could go that would be nonsense but would make complete sense. a place that i can touch, that i can wrap myself in, that i can fold into origami and carry with me in my back pocket while i drive my car, while i walk around the library, while i'm in an office chair amongst a sea of supplies, while i am. maybe home is a warm heart than spans across the aisles at the supermarket between the peanut butter and the dairy section. maybe home is in the way someone's eyes crinkle as they smile and their imperfect toes.
and it will be the first day of my life.
