Home and Away

I’m always on the road. I find myself to look far away towards all that I have not met yet, leaving behind all that I knew. I would be walking, however, hanging from a thread over the edge, between opposite sides: one the home and the other the road. I’m feeling restless still, so I have to move, somewhere there is something for me. Somewhere in the world my thoughts take shape, I know that I have to move quickly to find them. But I have to be home again, I need a place of my own, or I could lose myself when I'm around for a while. And yet there is no home for me, at least not as it’s usually spoken of, a husband, a child, a garden. I’m forever torn between the impulse to go and the impulse to stay apart, two worlds hanging in the balance equally away and unattainable.