Home

I’m home, I tell myself. And it feels a little truer each time.

I feel at ease in a strange way, like I’m welcomed into someone else’s dream: unfamiliar to me, but alluring and comfortable all the same.

I never want to go, then I go, then I never want to leave. I’m often like this, hesitant to get started, then I dive in so deeply I enjoy drowning myself. Until inevitably I need to reach for air – But I don’t want to think about that right now.

I cannot change the past; I cannot change any of the things that have happened. All courses of life thus far have set me right here, right now, set in stone: life’s simply stubborn that way. But when I’m home, I almost dare to wonder. Not really about what could’ve been, I’ve threaded that path too many times already: but about what could be.

My friends and their homes, they call to me. They ask me to join them. I plead with myself, and am always the most indecisive council. I seek comfort and I always think I find it, until I realize I don’t, and history repeats itself. Could I be happy?

When I’m here, I almost dare to wonder.

PS: Which choice is a loss? How many precious things at once do I bare to lose?