The last thing I wanted to do was go home.
Going home is a death sentence. It’s the last rung in failure.
Now that I am home, I feel guilty for giving it such a bad connotation. Not only is home tolerable, it is at times enjoyable. There is, after all, many people that I love here.
Many of my friends have gone home and have been able to spring from there. Some of them chose home and to them it’s the grandest of all options.
Maybe it’s my eternal optimism, but I’ve got this hunch that there is something for me. Maybe it’s a stable resting place or the chance to understand myself better. Or maybe it’s what I’ve been looking for.
Maybe it’s just home, and I forgot how reassuring it can be.