Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
       Waiting on the clock release us from whatever confines us. From work or from school. From sleep or from family. For our favorite shows or our favorite books. Or maybe the movie of today to finally end so you can go home.
       The difference between my home and yours is that my heart is embedded in every shift of the sheet and turn of the page, which occurs within the time I label free. Yours is your own, your heart and your soul and what you breathe your every breath to return to.
       My home is a relaxing place with no time limits and no thoughts of please, please be time to leave, just let me leave. My home knows not of my impatience and frustration or my tears of aggravation but it knows of my sorrows. It holds me in its motherly grasp ‘til the 'morrows. It grasps to my positivity and shows me the light that I need to grip the handrails of life and climb the next stair.
       Though we all have different homes, some all alone, others filled with crowds of chit chatters or silence. We are quiet minded in the place that speaks its volumes upon our hearts. In my home I wait not, for I fear not for the impending doom of responsibility, as home will always be there. It will be waiting, waiting for me to rest my weary shoulders onto its freshly made beds and close my eyes, cradled in its embrace.
       I don’t stare at the clock waiting for its tick or its tock.
       I am home.