Warmth and safety are things we often spend out whole lives searching for. The feeling of home and a sanctuary. Sometimes, we fool ourselves into thinking we've found it.
We live our lives, day in, day out, never realizing that something's missing. We are content with our lives, because we never realize they could be better.
So when I come home at night, and the house is dark and shuttered. When I'm alone, in the deep silence, my echoing thoughts for company…feel as if I am home. I feel safe and warm, secure in my solitude.
But, deep down, a part of me knows that isn't true. A part of me feels the innate wrongness of the very thoughts of being home. Because, this isn't home. Not to me.
Home, more often then not these days, is hundreds of miles away from here. On a set, or at a party, or even curled up on a battered couch.
Oh sure, I feel comfortable here, where I am. I even feel relaxed. But I can never truly feel free, loved and safe.
You see, my home, my safety, my very essence, is not a building, or a city. It's not a place you can see…not really.
My home is a space. A small one I'll grant you, but when I'm in it…it's large enough to hold everything I could ever want or dream.
My home you see, is in his arms.