Weave.

                   Watching over my 4 year old cousin look out into the open space, I made a mental note in which to remember that this person is building up his childhood right at this very moment. The way he held the Toblerone given to him by my aunt makes me think on how much he might miss this simple instance of pure joy years from now.

                    I could recall my childhood years. Most people would take a place as their home built up of friends and family that had been furnished by a significant amount of time, I, on the other hand ain’t so sure ‘bout this flourishing past. Fo shizz.

                   Home could be any moment. I am not certain at what point was a moment “home” for me. I just knew. Home isn’t a staple food or a familiar language. Home is getting lost in a crowd of lonely people and understanding their troubles. Home is walking in an unfamiliar path and looking up at the sky with a smile and the knowledge that this is what life should be and it is where you are right now. Home is every single time one has the chance to write out thoughts in a piece of paper and know that it is straight out of thy noggins.

              While home could be any moment, it is also an act of reconciliation with the past. Home is looking at a picture, reading an old book or reminiscing out of wonder and realizing how it all makes sense with the present. Home is making new friends out of old acquaintances. Home is the spirit that moves oneself towards acceptance of the past and hope for the future while consequently working things out in the present.  Home isn’t just creating new out of the new it’s also intermixing the old with the new for a new new. Lol.

            And as I’m typing away this spark of unhampered thought, I am placing out all of me in a precise pattern. My little cousin would’ve forgotten his moment of pure joy and I might someday decide to stop blogging (never) and I wouldn’t place a but + (some preachy line) to end this post and be cliche. It is ridiculous. No day ever happens twice. I have learned to take both the good and the bad into a single picture and it isn’t black and white. 

           The magnanimity of one’s life doesn’t end with one’s death for one’s thoughts go beyond the individual identity. It continues to amplify and recede throughout the web of shared thoughts. The ultimate home is the collective unconscious. To seek truth is to find love.

[quaere verum]