The Sanctuary.

The thing about moving to the very place that use to be your sanctuary, is that it becomes painfully common.
We all have the place where we run to, the place where we hide. What if it has now become your everyday life, and there is nothing extraordinary about it anymore.

Twice I have done this.
Moved to the place where I use to constantly run to.
Asheville was my sanctuary from Franklin.
And Tampa was my sanctuary from North Carolina.
Both places had dwindled into my mediocre timeline.

Becoming my everyday – instead of my hideaway.

Home is where the bullshit is.

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.tumblr_mnerwn17OQ1qk1jiqo1_500
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.