For a substantial number of years, I have been living out of my car, or a suitcase, or on a couch, or in someones spare bedroom. For the majority of my adult life, I have chose to live in these conditions. I have never minded it, no matter how sad it sounds.

I’ve just always been running away.
Driving away.
Putting more distance between me and my emotional tie I had with a man.
Constantly on the running from a relationship I ended.
Why am I like this? Why do I love to run away? I can honestly say I don’t even understand my own reasoning.

I moved out of my parents house when I was 17 years old, and since then I haven’t managed to spent more than 11 months in one place. Even the last home I lived in, where I was suppose to let myself settle and make a life in, I had to force myself to hang things up and try and get comfortable, because I knew I wouldn’t be there long.

Home is where the heart is. Home is wherever I’m with you. This is a house, not a home.

Do you know how many times I’ve fed those lines? How many times I’ve NOT felt at home. It’s unbelievable that at 21 years old, I am still living out of a suitcase and boxes…

… and I’m not on tour.