While in DC, I've created a sense of home. It lies within the little everyday similarities that evoke a place of calm. The moments where I forget I'm even somewhere I'm not used to being. The times where my leg muscles turn to pedals on my bicycle, the pushing becoming part of my ligaments. The novels that have turned into cinematic features, the act of page turning lost under the vale of imagination. The quiet place, the one I'm not afraid of. The times where I can scream at the top of my lungs, just because I can and no one is too close to noticeably hear it is me. The coffee shop that gives me animal crackers. The cold. The heat. My bedside glasses. My pillow. And maybe it’s not these material things I’ve mentioned that create a home, but rather the comfort they hold. The pearls they hide in the depths of their throats. The realness. People provide this as well for me. The people I've met here create normalcy in a place so far away from the geographical sense of what "home" means to me. It’s nice to open my self up to others, to expose my inner needs and wants. To explore a place, newly discovered with fresh eyes, with others. A place with Sunday dinner and laughing.
Spirits soar. The sky limitless, yet the ground providing support.
People laughing and loving. Couches indented after hours of conversation.
Secrets being told. Difference being understood.
The rain. The rain pours the same, our coverings helping the dry stay unmoistened, but the tears still linger far back in the eye. Speech sacred.
The routine of the week, broken by the spontaneity of the moment. Creating happiness in the fall breeze. The wind blows quick, then slow, against the window. I look out. The sky calm. Warmth reward as I turn my head back to friends.
Breathing feels good too. And the sun never comes out without a smile. It’s a home in a sense. This place and that place. The clouds providing my roof.