home

your arms are my shelter, your eyes are my home.

I feel more at home when I'm not at home. When I'm traveling away from "home" to wherever I want to be more than that. Ever since I've been working I make my work schedule into a malleable one, something flexible so I am not tied to one place. I need travel like I need air.

The wind is my shelter and wherever it carries me is home. I do not like the feeling of a house being a home. I hate it, especially since I have not had one that is mine yet, maybe that's the problem. This past year school finally felt like home, but not my room. My room was only home when we were in it together ignoring everyone else outside. Otherwise the rest of the campus was home. Here this place that I grew up in and is supposed to be my home, does not feel like home at all. It feels dissonant and strange, like some house modeled after my home but that has a different smell, or the color on the walls is just too off-white. Something is different and it is no longer home. I'm the one that is different.

The fodder and folly that my family wants me to write a book about is good, great material, but it's not material. It's not something I can write down and record and it will be funny or it will create a book. It is just us, just our interactions, just how we are together. This is where I come from, people who are neurotic and controlling, who know everything about everything but can recognize when they are being ridiculous. People who can laugh at themselves and difficult situations. I come from a sick sense of humor that finds morbidity strange and hilarious because sometimes feeling sad is out of the question. From tough people, people who are serious and joke in the same sentence, who muse and idealize and imagine. This is where I'm from and this is how I got this way.