The early morning after the holiday, after the fireworks fissle out, after the ***** dies down, I pick up the bag I keep in the back of my closet, packed with what little I own, evidence that I do not know the meaning of the word 'stay'. The fact that I never seem to need to unpack it only solidifies to me that I am not somebody who will ever know a true sense of home.

I am riding to a place I used to think I could consider a second home, with a sweet boy laying against my arm and I know that I should love this, two years ago I would have loved this. But everything just feels like a shadow of what once was, what I once was. I can't shake this sense that I may be missing something. That maybe I had a purpose but it was exploded into the night sky the minute that last firework sang its praises.

Holidays should not feel like funeral rites, they should not feel like sad goodbyes but I do not know how to be happy with the fact that another year has gone by and I am still here, still at the same crossroads between death and the rest of my life like some kind of suicidal vagabond.

All I want is to go home and not feel empty inside.