I've been on the road since I was fifteen. Living out of suitcases and too afraid to unpack, because I feared it not being permanent.

I didn't fear staying in one place for too long- in fact that's what I truly want- no, I feared that as soon as my clothes filled the shelves and I had a bed to my own that it would be ripped away. It's hard not to make connections, not to get too close, because you know that it could all disappear within a blink of an eye.

I've been looking for a home and I have had this sudden realization that maybe I am home. Maybe, the road is my friend, my suitcase my closet, my car my bed, and the radio my friend. Maybe home is just a loose term, like a loose button on a sweater. The world is the sweater and I'm the button barely hanging on-but still apart of the sweater, forgotten, but not forgotten. I'm still important, I still matter, I still have a home on the sweater. Maybe, I am home and I should just keep running with the world.