not my home.

Perhaps the very grief that grips our hearts when we find ourselves most lonely or broken, that squeezes until the tears slide silently across dark lashes and hit the cool pillowcase, is not caused by lack of human interaction or personal achievement. If nothing in this world can truly satisfy, why do I continually seek such things? My strength and efforts search to fill hollow longings with quiet conversations and a sense of belonging (wait, I am just passing through), peering beneath old letters and weekly to-do lists. Nothing. Like decorous paper pinned loosely with Scotch tape around an empty cardboard box. It is such a pretty box, but like I've always been told: do not be fooled by the curly ribbons or sparkling glitter. It's what's inside that counts.