The Balance of Home

Home isn’t perfect It’s messy, unkempt. Home is like nature where you can’t know what to expect. Home is freeing, and like wind pushing through blades of grass. Home is like kindness, for whoever may ask. Home is a family even if not by blood. You can just sit there and it could lift you up. Up high on a mountain, and clothes ripple in the breeze. Away in a cottage, tucked safe, shaded by the tallest of trees. Or maybe a city, cluttered with noise, noises of friends you could never dream to avoid. But then there is you, a human being. Nobody else can really know exactly what you’re seeing. A large plain field with a small house and a barn, a rocking chair and a ball of yarn. There could be a small camper van, or a backpack full of belongings, for those who find staying not being honest. A group of friends, a large family. That seems the most common from what I can see. Some people who make you laugh, make you smile, make you mad. But you never stayed angry, just slowly moved on, that really is what home is, if I'm not wrong. Home is fluid, home is trust, home can’t be described by a place, or a car, or a bus. Home isn’t a doorway into a house. Home isn’t even a feeling you’ll douse. Home is a way of living, a way to see that home isn’t anything else but what it should be.