Standing at the corner of So Close and So Far.

I like projects. They keep my mind occupied and my hands busy. So, I tend to take on one new project after another, after another, after another. It's an endless cycle, but it keeps me sane. They're usually small, inconsequential and only semi-productive little tasks since I'm not creative or crafty enough to get very elaborate with them. This is just a little background information that may be useful to know before I go on...

I started a new project recently. It's a short term kind of thing. And, honestly, it sounds a little silly when you say it out loud. Since Taylor Swift's new album just came out about a week ago and she inspires me in ways that I can't even explain, I decided to honor her and her incredible new album by going through the track list and dedicating a day to each song in order from the day the album was released. Each day, I have chosen my favorite (or sometimes just the most applicable) line in each song and quoted it via Facebook. It's one of my tiniest projects thus far, but I somehow felt obligated to go through with it. Today was the 7th day of this project, so it was dedicated to the 7th song on the album, "I Almost Do." The song is gorgeous, for lack of a better word. Not to mention, it really hits home, as I'm sure many girls would be able to say about this very song. But, for me, it dawned on me in a very eerie way that it was a strange coincidence that today of all days was the one dedicated to this specific song.

As I listened to the song, listening carefully to each lyric, one verse felt almost as if it were piercing swiftly through my chest as it filled it my mind:

"We made quite a mess, babe. It's probably better off this way. And I confess, babe, in my dreams you're touching my face and asking me if I want to try again with you. And I almost do."

It couldn't have been more perfectly worded or any more perfectly wounding in the most heartbreakingly beautiful way. It has almost been five months now. Five months since I have been on my own, emotionally speaking. Five months since my world was thrown into a chaotic hurricane of paralyzing silence and numbing confusion. And I was really starting to feel like I was coming out of the end scenes of that nightmare. I was finally able to admit that this is the way that it's supposed to be, and we weren't right for each other, and that I'm better off without that relationship and that person as such a definitive factor in my world and I would never, ever get myself into something like that again. I was actually believing all of these things, too.

Then last night came, as if on cue, to lull me to sleep away from my fleeting daily nightmare into an actual dream that shook me nearly to the point that I was at five months ago. He walked in, looking exactly as I remember and sat down on my bedroom floor. As he sat there, he just watched me and asked me all of the questions I've been dreading giving the answers to. He asked about the things that happened after everything ended, everything I was trying to keep from him, everything I was feeling, everything that I knew would stab us both through the deepest chambers of our minds simultaneously. And then finally, when I had told him everything he didn't want to hear and I didn't want to admit, he just looked up at me and asked me if we could try again and make things right, the way we had always planned. And I couldn't give him an answer. But I almost did.

I don't believe in coincidence. I believe in fate, like the naive, twenty-year-old girl that I am. I know I'm not supposed to believe that dreams carry any weight in communicating anything from a subconscious state to a conscious one, but some things are simply impossible to ignore. This was one of them. I won't end this with some profound, inspiring revelation of a conclusion, because there isn't one. Not yet. All I know is that I just have to wait and see. A very wise person recently advised me not to base my future on my present circumstances. So, I will wait. For what, I'm not entirely sure. But I will sit patiently, awaiting whatever brilliant beam of light is destined to illuminate this dark spot in my path. Every nightmare must end at some point. At least, that's what they keep telling me...

Home.

Home is where the heart is. Home, sweet home. It's more than a house, more than a city or town, so much more than just a place. It's a refuge, a sanctuary, a safe haven. For me, it's the first place I run when I have been lost for a time and need to be found. The concept of "home" differs from person to person. For some, home is not, in fact, the house that they grew up in, but some far, distant place where they found their true selves. This is not the case for me. My home fits the obvious definition of the word. It is the place that I did the greater part of my growing up. It is the four walls that built the girl who eventually became a young woman. It is the smells, the sounds, the traditions that inhabit the home in which I woke and lived and dreamt until the day that life opened a new chapter that required me to leave this place. No matter how much like "home" anywhere else that I may lay my head might feel, it will never truly be the place where I find my escape. It will never truly be my home.

I went home recently after being away for almost two months. Granted, this is not exactly a long time to  be away; I've been away longer. But each year that I've been away, I have grown more drawn to the place that I was born. It's strange. I viewed this place, when I lived in it permanently, as a suffocating place, a place with nothing to offer and even less to stick around for. I saw it as a black hole, a place in which to get trapped and never find a way out. So, naturally, as any wide-eyed eighteen-year-old would, I fled at the first chance of escape. And I did so with the intention of never looking back. At first, I didn't. At first, I coveted my newfound freedom. I boasted of it to those who had not been "fortunate" enough to get out in time. And I was in love with this new place that I found myself in. Truthfully, I still am. But, truthfully, it's not my home. I love this place and I love my school and the people that I have grown close to in my time here. I love being on my own and I love the idea that I have a bright future ahead of me because I am here. All of these things are true. Yet, every time I think of home, I feel a pull at my heartstrings and each time I go home and come back again, I can't help but feel that I am leaving my heart there, with the people, the places, the sights, sounds, and smells of the town that shaped me and the house that built me.

Both the house and the town I call home are modest; nothing spectacular or strikingly beautiful. At least, not to an ordinary, unfamiliar pair of eyes. But to me, this place holds magic and the ability to fuel even the wildest of dreams. I know this, because this is what it has done for me. This place, my home, has witnessed my greatest feats and my most devastating failures. It has held me through my deepest heartbreaks. It has heard endless laughter and endured countless tears. It was the sole spectator of my first kiss, as well as my last. It is the place that I truly fell in love for the first time and the place that was my comforter as I watched it all fall apart. I once resented this  place because it held so many memories that, at the time, I wished I could erase from my memory completely. Now, each stop light I pass has a fond memory attached, some painful and some heartwarming. But, I no longer wish those memories into oblivion. I hold them dear, no matter how much recalling them causes me to ache deep within my soul. These things, each and every one, are the abstract and broken pieces that have built me and made me whole.

I am lucky to have a home that I love so deeply. I am even luckier to be able to come back to it each time and receive the same heartfelt, warm welcome as the times before. I am beyond fortunate to not only have my family in this place, but those people who have accepted me as their own family over the years. There is no greater feeling in the world than coming home to the place that you love and being welcomed by people who love you in a way that is beyond my ability to fully grasp. I know with full certainty that no matter the circumstances, I will always be welcome here. I will always have a place that I can call home. No matter how far I stray, or for how long, I can always come home again.

This place, that I once regarded with such disdain, is my safe place, the one I now run to rather than run from. Now, instead of being ashamed of where I come from, I boast about being a girl from a farm town with a mall that is only one story and where tractors are the primary source of traffic. It is now a place that I can take pride in being from. It no longer holds all of my regrets and unforgivable mistakes. It is now a gracious place to lay down my worries and fears and know that I am protected and loved there. It is where I am able to find clarity and absolute peace. It is the place I return when I have nowhere else to turn. This is where I find myself when I feel as though I have lost it all. It is my refuge, my sanctuary, my safe haven. It is my home, forever. Only time will tell if it will be the place that I return to for good. But if I do, it will be because it is the only place that I feel whole, not because I was unable to escape. I only hope that, one day, I will be able to give to this place as much as it has given me. I hope to leave my mark on this place that is so deeply engrained in my heart. I don't care what anyone says, you really can go home again.