I have tried to find home in different cities; within the passenger’s seat of a stranger’s car; at the bottom of hollow bottles; on the kitchen floor; by way of little white pills; in the heart of a boy who could never love me back. Yes, I have tried.
There’s something about the way it moves, the way it swallows you whole before you even know you’re drowning. It’s deceptive like that, loneliness. It doesn’t hit you until you’re far too young, walking down a street you can't name to sleep in a place that will never feel like home.
But sometimes it’s like that, head on into the wind, sails ablaze, coasting on a lucky gust into the vast ocean of rough waters. You never think about that, though. It’s forward, as they say. Always moving forward.
I have tried to find home in many things. I think I am finding it in myself.