the + dump

how you would storm through the house with all the blood in your little body trying to burst through your cheeks because it was unfair you couldn’t have dessert before dinner. how you would get to the front door with your little red wagon packed with the essentials; your teddy bear, a rain jacket, all $5.68 in the a piggy bank that you were sure would get you to antarctica, and maybe the chocolate bar you were stashing under your bed, and then you would burst into tears because your parents let you make it that far. they let you go and in that moment you felt more abandoned than you thought you would cause them in your absence. they loved you enough to let you get to the door step, maybe even down the block, for that little taste of freedom. 

i still want to run away from home. or maybe its a matter of running towards it. home seems so illusive, so unrefined. sometimes i sleep better in the back of my prius on a solo road trip than i do in my own bed. home has always been spoken of as security and safety but i don’t believe walls are required for that anymore. home is a sound, its an onomatopoeia. its not a structure of boards and nails but what your mind hums when it reaches that feeling of composure.