For the things we truly love, we must make sacrifices. Sometimes we must forget the self that we think we are.
Sometimes we must have nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no one to be with.
This is how we find our way home.
Home. Home can be an empty word that has no meaning. Home and I never established a solid relationship, and so I was searching for this place where I could belong and where my heart could rest at peace and where I could be rooted to grow as a tiny sapling.
I had attempted to quit smoking many times before. Walking home at night in the rain I made oaths with myself to end the habit and I tried over and over to convince myself I did not need it. At work, every hour, I would step outside to drag for five minutes on this token of freedom from an uncomfortable social situation that pained me to stand amongst. A cigarette represented an escape. A way out of all of the voices going around inside my head while I didn’t know how to speak, how to be alive, how to be amongst other human beings. So I would think and think about the next opportunity to hold that rolled tobacco between my fingers and run from this world that made no sense to me so I could be alone in the open air and my thoughts could slump into numbed relaxation.
When my anxieties attacked at every angle within the depths of my soul, it was always there to lean upon like a dummy in the pocket of a baby long grown out of suckling years. I had no money, but always had enough to smoke. And perhaps if I hadn’t given myself away so easily to a destructive relationship it would have been only half the climb back up.
Never again will I allow myself to be submissive to something that does not understand me, respect me, or love me as I am.
Never again will I lose sense of my true self, or hide my self, or be afraid to express the love that I am.
My life was filled with people who hid their love behind closed doors or had been hurt so much they had forgotten how to love, maybe they never knew how to love. And I don’t mean love between a man and a woman I mean human love, spiritual love, love for all; love that transcends you because you love all people with their flaws and mistakes and sacrifice yourself just so you can show others a pure love and how to love themselves with words and actions and a new chain of thought that stops them from thinking they are ugly, or worthless, or inadequate, or alone.
You can start to view each person as a brother or a sister on this journey together, each needing a hand to hold and someone to show them the way.
Sometimes I get frustrated because the cats persist to excrete in the garden, odours of scattered rubbish waft along the street, the lounge is not homely enough to relax in, and I’ve had little money for food, no way of travelling anywhere except by foot, and feelings of despair. But I got out of all of those other places that sucked me down and teared me and grasped at me with a million hands. I do have a roof over my head, I have a bed, a hot shower, a stove, trees around the corner and a river down the road, and I have people who want to help me; people who genuinely care because they love all. There is no arguing in my house, no smoking, no drinking, no loud swearing, and I am safe from the outside world. This may sound terribly boring but in fact it is incredibly humbling to have so little of material value but instead live through having nothing and nowhere and no-one so you are able to feel the deepest gratitude for the most simple, peaceful blessings.
I live in a house, yet it is not my home. A search for my home began too long ago to tell. I was looking for something that could not be found. The earth is my home. The whole of the earth. Wherever I may go, I am home.