Home

Is where the heart is.
But I don’t know where my heart is?
And at the vaguest idea of where it might be I think it’s in the wrong place. So where is my home?
Do I have a home?
Do I have a heart?
I do, I have a heart to live but a brain for emotional chemicals.

With this deduction the heart is for living like our homes: for living. Where do you live? It makes sense this way.

Home is where you are alive, not confortable.
Where you can survive, not be happy and privileged.

It would be nice to be happy too, with where you live.
Maybe I’m so happy about where I live that I am writing a digressing thought process of how much I miss it and want to go back.

My heart is beating here until the end. Once it’s over I’m back where I call home. But home is our heart and therefore our body ergo we are always home.

What if the heart ain’t ours? Transplate surrgery and organ donations.. I guess it’s like money, once we get it it’s ours? I’m going to assume so. So it is always our home. We are always at home. So why do I miss my home?

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Like our emotions

Have you ever hear your heart beating in time to the pulse of the glowing moon… Turning brighter and dimmer like an undecided switch or like the pendulums on our grandfather’s woren faces?

Maybe you felt the cold chip through your skin like the ghost of christmas past, maybe the closest you got to a snowman is an ice cube.

But the closest you got to me is reading my mind on this platform, which is closer than the one’s who see my eyes outside but never truly look in…

If only people looked deeper, felt something more than the little blink but the full darkness of rainbow colours when their eyes are shut they might come to conclusions of which might be correct….

You know mine not, so stop commentating and deciding against my truest desires.

Comedians are depressed.

Reading words isn’t fasinating anymore.  I’m too captivated by the words you breath; to obssessed with our story to try and understand another.
This is the beginning of my self-destruction and means of dependency.
Too involved, it frightens me.
Too attached, lack in confidence contradiction to the fact you grow in my self esteem and build me the ladder and offer the hand that pulls and helps and leaves me higher in progress.
With predators batting and scraping at my heels, you’re the one I run too.
I run to myself, but i cannot carry my self, i am not enough for myself despite the words of everyone saying I am. I desperately aware I am not.

Just when I thought… No I am wrong. I quite normally am, my highs and lows meet together and how happy I was. So low I must become to neutralise my existence; to balance out, that’s the fair reality right.

Firefighters drown, and we meet our bittersweet conclusion.