Home is a safe, happy place where you belong.
Why do I feel like I have to make miracles happen in order to feel at home?
In my body. In my mind. In my work. In every environment of which I am a part.
I have to make miracles happen if I want to be safe let alone happy, so I better get to work.
The food I eat. The air I breathe. The blood in my veins are the currency I chip in hoping to balance the scales.
If those aren’t miraculous enough, I will extract the living colors from them and juggle - making noise for those who can’t see and rainbows for those who can’t hear.
And if I can’t spin my pain into gold, I’ll hide and let the colors fall where they may while I search for new food, new air, new blood because I’m still not at home.
I’m still wondering “Where do I belong?”