Home.

The plight trods on. Visions of dreams and nightmares of the past and the seemingly endless stagnation of the present, and all of it wrapped up, tangled, gnarled like matted hair and thread and boxes of old electrical cords. These things that are seemingly unrelated, yet come together in a way which I would've never thought possible. Knotted and knitted and woven into my veins. Capillary crochet. It's the knowing it's out there that is both the best and hardest part of it all. Sensing its greatness and wonder, but it being just out of sight. I can close my eyes and smell the vast fields of grass. I can walk barefoot in the dandelions, my toes making wishes with every step. I can press my face into the fertile soil and feel its nourishment soaking straight through my flesh. I can stretch so long and tall that my hands will never even come close to touching the top of it. It's infinite. It's beyond grand. It's everything that I have ever amounted to, and everything I always knew I could be, realized. Chipped boards and tilted fences and white scalloped cabinets and critters wandering about. Piles of musky fire wood, and fresh, green appendages feeling the warmth of the sun for the very first time. Large, crooked trees with swings in them, and sweet nests of chattery birds singing catchy tunes in their branches. Ants marching to and fro maintaining the order of things. Soft flannel sheets, and creaky old floors. Life growing inside of me. Life encompassing me. This is where I am meant to be. Always.