At first thought, I see my parent's house, my house, and the houses of my friends. But houses aren't necessarily homes; There are the fondest and most vile of memories commingled at the house of my parents, so it never held a trusted sense of comfort for me growing up; My house today is turned upside down by divorce; And, let's face it, my friends' houses are where they attempt to create a feeling of home for themselves, not me.
And then I see Las Vegas. Some people might be astonished at the thought, but the Las Vegas I know has a familiarity that is close to what I envision home to be like. The ditch down Washington screams of dangerous adventures. Fireworks shows at the Union Plaza mean family togetherness. Driving to the base of Sunrise Mountain to stand in awe of all the sparkling lights holds a thousand memories. The most cherished friendships known to man were forged there. Yet even still, it is not home.
Now, I see home not as a place but as a state of the heart-- a deeply affectionate, shared cognizance of someone else wherein a near tangible timelessness resonates. Home, to me, is where I may rest my heart in safety because there is no doubt he knows me at my weakest and worst, and he cares for me still; even more so, it is where those two imperfect people come together in love and loyalty, emphatically pushing away fear. There is much given and required in building this sort of home. It almost seems too much to ask--an actual dream which has no foundation in reality--except, glints of it have been sighted on occasion. Call me an overly hopeful romantic, but I believe in the near impossible.
That being said, I am quite homeless and could be sweeping the streets until the end of my days.
At least my story isn't finished being written yet...I will continue to hope until then.
Source: twowritingteachers.wordpress.com via The Purple on Pinterestrelated link:
Seeing Through The Tears
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