bones are instruments, too

Six months ago, I cut out my heart and left it five hundred miles to the west. Why do this? For school, for love–for all the best reasons. You leave home to find who you are, even if you already know yourself.

And I know myself. As much as an ‘I’ can know a ‘self.’

Searching for yourself is like looking for the house you stand in
How could you possibly find it?
It’s everywhere
It’s all you know
And there are no other points of reference

[ripped from Pain of Salvation‘s Diffidentia]

There’s something to be said for stepping outside your self, your comfort–the place, the home, you known yourself best in.

But sometimes, I blink and look around at these hills like dirty teeth and I feel gut-sick. Where are my ferns? My moss? My green ocean, my silver sky-bruises, my my my–mine. This place isn’t mine and my marrow knows it. Even the people here, they can tell I’m not meant for this place.

I try to be mindful about it all, exist in the moment. This piece of planet is no less than the one I spilled out on, twenty three years ago. So find something to love about it. Make it hard to let go, when goodbye arrives. Make the parting bloody–because I know I’ll be grinning when it comes.

bones are instruments

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