home

The wind blows harder here at home.  I suppose it’s the way the mountains funnel it in and shove it through this place.  Whatever it is, I know its different than the way it whips around in that college town.  As of late, my days have been drained into its misguided holding tank, never to be seen or felt again.

I was happy to leave there and I thought I’d be even happier to come back home.  I was in a sense, things here feel real, less contrived, and I’d missed the feeling of knowing exactly what it was that I was looking at.  It may not be beautiful, but at least it’s honest, and that in its own right is beautiful. 

The way I feel here, even with the wind wrapping itself around my neck, I know it will not last.  I know this because I know myself.  The road will beg for my feet like a pack of wolves.  And I will succumb.  Because this heart was not made to beat in one place but to break amongst the rivers.