When I explain my past, its hard to really pinpoint a home. I have homes, but they mostly exist in my mind. As a kid, I moved so much that getting attached to a place wasn’t really something that I could do emotionally. More often than not, I don’t think of home as a place because home is not permanent. Is home a structure, a feeling, a moment, a person, or that warm feeling in your chest in the middle of the night when you feel safe? I’ve always felt like an outsider – which might just be my personality or a survival mechanism to keep me from getting too attached. Sometimes it is easier to maintain a certain level of distance in order to keep your sanity than to take a chance, but then you meet those people. Those people who strip the rust from your heart leaving you open and vulnerable just by not allowing you to stay far away. I can count on one hand how many of those people have walked into and out of my life. I’m not particularly fond of being noticed, but these people don’t give me a choice and it teaches me something every time. Each of these people represent a home to me.
Maybe home is just a moment crystallized in time. Just one perfect day where the dreams are allowed to exist and we speak our truths without so much fear and it is okay. We aren’t so scared of sharing our demons, because we all have them. In those 12 hours, life doesn’t really need to make sense and we don’t feel so damn overwhelmed by our brains. I had one of those days recently and I want to crystallize this day in amber so that when the darkness comes back – I can remember.