The roads we travel seem to lead to a destination. Those roads, often, have no direction. Our paths cross at random under some pretense of order meeting at chaotic intersections.
We are the wanderers.
Those who are buried deep in the journey of life. Six feet couldn’t bring us death. Never satisfied with the stability of “home”; whatever that is.
“Home is where the heart is.”
“Home is where you hang your hat.”
These tend to be some of the common responses to the idea of home. What is home? Do any of those funny phrases really capture what “home” is? Is a house a home? What about an apartment? Is home where the majority of your family resides? Is home meant to be a singular spot in this infinite universe?
For me, home doesn’t exist. I think home is a feeling, not a place. “Home” is a feeling. A feeling that one learns about at a young age. A feeling that should be established under youthful innocence. A feeling that holds the essence of safety and stability; that gives a foundation of security.
The mad ramblings of a man who had a troubled childhood. A child that grew into a lost and confused teenager. A teenager that became a hurt disgruntled adult. An adult that is searching for the next step.
A step that may bestow salvation, or, just as likely, lead to damnation.
Hm, can’t help but wonder which will find me wandering.
While these might be the ramblings of a broken man lost in life, I have to assume with eight billion plus and growing on this rotating aquatic rock there has to be, at the very minimum, one other person who understands this line of thought for the beauty it holds.
And that is where “home” is for the vagabond….
The lost find home in being lost…
-The Renaissance Man, Michael Angelo Smith