fake your death

home is nowhere now.

I'm growing to understand that home is not a physical place, but a place with outstretched arms and smiling eyes that close when you kiss. Home is where you want to be warm.

It's hard when you don't really feel like home exists anymore. The place I grew up has grown up without me, leaving me to float awkwardly like a ping pong ball in a blow-test tube.

Home exists, but I can't find it.

We (I) live in an awkward period of time, where it seems like we are always transitivity. This job to that job, this future to that future, this person to the next, years of constant movement. These years of instabilty are causing us to distrust the stable, grounded lives available to us. We are so used to constant fluidity, that we can't really appreciate the steadfast. We get bored with people, bored with jobs, bored with daydreamed futures. It's crazy and I hope it ends soon.

I just want to be content.