My heart is not in a specific geographic location, it was once, or maybe that’s what I thought. I thought it was back in Casiopea #208, since I was young I convinced myself of this. That place where I felt cozy, my heart seemed to feel welcomed and unique. There, my inner child came out everyday to play. I always considered that my favorite place in the world.
As years passed, I couldn’t visit Casiopea #208 as often anymore, my heart seemed to take it a bit hard. There was no place like home, I thought. And there certainly was no place my heart could be at complete peace if it was not there.
As I grew older, the people that came into my life were many and for a while I thought maybe that’s where my heart could find a new host. Wrong. Many of those people stayed for a while and left. That’s where I believed my home and heart were not a moving vehicle. My home and heart were in the giggles I shared with my family as a child, the unforgettable holidays we spent inside and outside the walls of Casiopea #208. My heart was in the scars my knees, arms, and legs still have from playing tag and hide & seek until late hours, and even in the once burned and now cured wounds on my back and foot.
Yet, as time has passed, I’ve discovered that although my heart and home are in those memories, it is only a portion of it.
Now, I have learned that a part of my heart is in the southern part of the Pacific Ocean with someone extremely special. The other parts of this candid heart are in my brother’s soul, in my grandma’s anecdotes, in my grandpa’s jokes, in my aunt’s nurturing heart, and in my best friend’s caring curls. I have found that every single one of them carries a piece of my heart with them. My heart has found somewhere to rest, somewhere where it does not feel judged, where it feels like home.
My heart was not left to rest in Casiopea #208. The home or shelter this place offered for it was burned down by all the broken promises, the high egos we all ended up developing, and the years that made us distant as they went by. That place could no longer be the shelter of my heart, there was nothing but ashes that scattered remains of memories and burned pieces of old wood left of Casiopea #208. Addictions shattered the life that was once spent building it high with every block and piece of wood, each with hopes for prosperity in them.
That’s where it, my heart, finally realized that was not home, Casiopea #208 was not my heart’s home. Those who hold it know, they know, where my heart is.