What mysterious paradigms of love keep me going back to these people I call home, I do not understand. Simple familial ties of familiarity are so commonplace that it becomes increasingly impossible for me to decipher what holds these diverse immeasurables of huddling together. Is it simply love? What is simply love? Simplicity is a mystery unlike any other. Home. Morning wakes me up with the sounds of a dream’s departure shying away from those of a day’s arrival.
Home is birds trying to teach me to fly. What a difficult student I am, to have failed persistently for all these years. Home is a child that colors the sketch book of my memories with colors she cares about. How wonderful to care without a care. Home is a smile that grows upon my face like the tree I’d planted years ago, with my father.
Home is a bird. Home is a pretty bird. Home is a pretty pretty bird.