A dear friend of mine asked if I could post this as a guest writer. Give it a read, absolutely amazing.
Have you ever read those stories of the people that live in the same place their entire lives and are totally content to stay there? That feeling, of staying in one place, living and dying in the same town, no matter how big or small, has always remained a mystery to me. While I don’t want to travel the seven seas nor do I give a damn about the wonders of the world, I have never been one to rest my heels anywhere. Some of that is probably nature, but most of it is nurture. I want to see what is over the horizon, what is over the mountains, or what lays the on the other side of the river. I moved a lot as a child, 13 times before I was even 18. No two places were the same. There were the plains and slow rolling hills of middle Georgia, the coast (where I am most at home), and the mountains. A bevy of places, mostly for a year or two, then moving on, my family always chasing the next win or the next ring. I never knew different, only that making any lasting friendships was difficult, and, as I aged, I stopped bothering. I learned to rely on myself only, to keep my own counsel. Does that sound hard? Cold even? Like I said, I never knew and still don’t know if it is good or bad. It just is. But somewhere along the way, things changed. 

 I always thought home was a house, with a dog, in a small neighborhood where everyone knew everyone and children played together and grew up together. Home, where everyone knows your name. Home, where everyone knows your parents and has seen you grow. Thankfully, it appears I was wrong. 

 I swore I would never come back here. Too many bad memories, too much that that reminded me that I was a failure and had let myself down and my family down. Too much wasted potential. But, God or the universe don’t care about our promises. Slowly, after beating myself up for half a decade, I have stopped doing that and come to know myself. I stopped hating myself. I figured out that living life as a cold wannabe asshole is a damn lonely way to go through the world. What I realized is that people matter. Friends matter. The way you move through life matters, how you touch lives and people matters. 

 I realized that home isn’t a house. Home isn’t a town. Home is people. Home is friends that love you, people that care about you enough to yell at you when you are doing dangerous, harmful activities. Home is being able to say that you would do the same for those people and doing it, letting them know that you love them as much as they love you. 

 I never wanted to come back here. I wanted to leave as soon as I signed my lease in that nasty apartment in willow trace. I hated these mountains. I hated the weather. I wanted the sun on my shoulders and a life unfettered by anything other than my own wants and desires. How wrong I was. I came looking for nothing and found everything I ever wanted. I found love and acceptance far beyond what I ever deserved or what I still deserve. I was lost and I was jaded, but now I was lost, I am found, I am free, and I am happy. This is the home I never knew I dreamed of and now I am struggling to accept the idea that I must one day leave. 

I found home on a broken road and wouldn’t trade it for the world. 


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