No guide, no sign, no love, no death

When I read about Third Cultures Kids, I thought it was a very appropriate, very fitting metaphor. Now I realize that it wasn't a metaphor at all. It's exactly what happens

I have felt like a foreigner on strange lands for a few years now. Every now and then I get a glimpse of home, but much like anything good, it's just flitting. I don't know these people, I don't know this language. And no matter where I go, it'll never be home. Home, unlike is usually thought, and a bit like heaven and hell, is not a physical place, but a state of spirit. I don't know where my home is anymore, and nothing will apparently ever make sense until I find it. Unless I've already found it, but forgot to write down the address. Don't you ever get that feeling of walking by somewhere and knowing that that place is significant somehow, but you just don't know why?

All I want is a place I can come back to whenever I need. And not a real place, but a corner of my mind where I can just sit and drink hot cocoa, not a worry in sight. Maybe that's my undertow, afterall. No matter how dark, or how late it gets, the fire that lights my dark study is endlessly ignited. However, it's also the searing touch that wakes you up every time you get just that close to bliss. I don't know what kindles it. Maybe I never will. I guess no one really knows. I just want to sit down and watch the flames dance their eternal tango

Balance is not the evening out of an extremity, it's a constant push towards the middle. Of course, much like anything else, that in itself is also a double-edged sword. I want to get burnt at this fireplace so that I'll always know where it is, so that I can come back to it when it's too cold outside and I just need some warmth, nothing but a little cozy heat