Saturday, July 2, 2011


Home is not a place, or a location but a series of feelings. An intricate binding of thoughts from the present, the past, and the desired future. Home is a place of comfort, of nostalgia, of pain and pleasure permeating the mundane.

Where is my home? Can one feel like they are from somewhere they are not? Home is the placement of memories on the canvas of my body, the conversations that appear in past lives, only to be remembered in subconscious dreams.

Home is not a place, but a desire. A desire to be accepted, to feel wanted, to feel loved. Home is neither here nor there, but everywhere I have laid my head to rest and found joy and love.

Home is a work in progress.

Home alludes the present tense.

My home, my heart, is scattered--from the west, to the east, to the south to the far north. Friendly cities and intellectual continents, fading and surpassing, waxing and waning just like the moon above.

Home is the desire to belong.

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