They say home is where the heart is. If that's the case, then my home must not be your run-of-the-mill, four wall, shingled roof, fenced in abode that so many visualize when I say that.
For me, home seems to be found in tiny toys, friendships past & current, notes, paintings, pictures, memories. They all were thrown into a toy chest together to create the beating pulse to my well being. But now I feel as though a younger, pesky sibling has come up to the chest & kicked it over, spilling all that's inside across the room and into the nooks and crannies of old wooden floors. If my heart strings were connected to the items you'd see it as a large disperse of things going every which way. There all still connected, yet very far apart. The ties pull me in every single direction & the ache is a steady one that reminds me of the things that make me who I am. I'm not a marionette being directed, but the ties that connect me are so strong that its hard not to wish they could walk me through life, bringing me from one scene to the next, showing me where I need to go and what to do.
But even Pinocchio cut his strings and found his own way home, right?