“Home is a lot of stillness, Home is the stable point of self-stability”
My Home
It’s salty and wet. I’ve always wondered where my hair got its curves. Peaceful, chill, laidback, and annoyingly not punctual. Ever. This regal sense beneath my feet as I soften and ground into the earth. Organized chaos. It all works but in a round-a-bout sort of way. My tongue holds tension, but this red crushed pepper heals my tummy, and I can now inhale fresh air. A mix of the old and new. Scorched sun, hot burning feeling on gravel, and the need to take another shower never get old. Disturbed. They always want to change me. My ears hurt. I never can do it right. My ears hurt. I’m never good enough. Screw it. Let’s just toss it all away. Start over. Abuse. Down the river, and erosion resumes and scars resurface. I shudder as these words and physicality imprint and enter my body with a cold breeze. The river is never the same water twice.
