Some people make a home where they adventure to. Some make a home from circumstance. Some runaway and never find a home.
I'm at home in my own head.
This small town, filthy, backward, lonely little town is familiar but only in the way a reoccurring nightmare is. It represents failure to me. I feel like I'm drowning here. I guess I am. Leaving, I suppose is the best way to handle it, but simple as it is to say -- it's not simple at all.
I guess that's why I live in my head. Sure, it's a flood of things tangible and mystic alike, but I can swim there... And I can make sense of it. I'm thankful for being far away, though, I feel removed. It serves my weird and private, protective existence well. But... And I whisper this with no hope attached... If there is a physical space, a place of my own, tidy and quiet and swollen with music from the needle of beautiful, vintage record player... I hope I am indeed headed there.
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