going home
Going home is weird. uncomfortable if that’s the right word. It’s like it’s not the same place I used to live. I mean, I sleep in the same bedroom with the same blankets, lights, and windows, and I have the same pictures and racing bibs stuck up on my baby blue walls. but it doesn’t seem like the same room I used to share laughs in, write stories and tell secrets. Going home is weird. I mean, I still drive the same little blue Volkswagen beetle and make the same coffee in the same coffee maker, but driving, sipping my favorite beverage in my little tiny town doesn’t feel the same. It’s like I’m the tourist in a made-up neighborhood only fit for the actors playing townspeople. Going home is weird. Maybe it’s because I honestly cut most ties and bound a string around new people from other homes with doormats I have not stepped on yet, or maybe because I grew, and I see the world with new eyes. Going home i...