Somebody asked me why do I always go home for the weekend.The question made me want to both laugh and cry at the same time.
I don't know,maybe because I have mild panic attacks each time I arrive here?Maybe because it's hellishly hard to live confined in a particularly small space with a person that doesn't share your blood or personality?Or maybe because I don't have the slightest idea what I'm doing among cockroaches and pointless responsibilities,when all I want to do is be home with my family?
I think her first impulse was to tell me "Get a life!",but my eyes don't lie and they want out.
So,I'll carry around with me more stuff than it's comfortable.I'll beg of my teachers to let me leave 10 minutes early.I'll run to/in/within/out of the subway because the clock and the ticket aren't quite merciful.I'll spend 2 hours on a train that's as full of burlesque surprises as a circus."Why",you say?.For me.
For my sanity and my aching body and my hungry emotions.So I can shed the mask and be raw for a while.To really breathe for a couple of days in a bloody week.
I can't let go because I don't want to let go.Why should I?I may not know a lot of things,but I do know this:life's too short to give up on the people you love.
So yes,my home is my sanctuary and I get to pray every few days.