There’s this place I go sometimes. I have told people about it but never brought anyone there. They don’t understand it. They don’t know it as well as I do.

And I don’t want them to ruin it.

It’s the place I go where the music blares in my ears and the words from others are muted under the music’s hard foot.

It’s called Home.

Home is with music at every step. Music without words. Home wouldn’t want to distract you from what is going on with meaningless words.

Home is filled with violence and love and death. Sometimes it is filled with menace and cruelty. Sometimes it is full of blood.

Sometimes happiness abounds.

Here I am not myself. At Home I cannot move my own limbs and I cannot always speak. All I do is watch. I watch other people at Home. I watch them fight and rage war against each other. I watch them struggle to find themselves and struggle against each other. I cry when they die.

Sometimes I find my voice and shout at them. They do not listen. They cannot hear me.

Sometimes people ask about my Home. They ask how I do what I do. I tell them I don’t do anything.

I just sit and stare.

They always look at me a little weird. But they’ve never been there and they will never be there. So I suppose that’s all right.

I tell people about those I watch at Home. They smile and laugh.

“But you created them,” they say. I shrug.

I did not create them. But they cannot know that.

Someone asked me once what I love. They asked me what makes me tick. I told them I live and breathe to be at Home. They arched a brow and looked me over.

“Why?”

“Because Home…It is everything I wish to be and everything I hate. It is all that I love and loath, all that I desire to be changed and all that cannot be changed. It is full of love I cannot have and is bleeding with death. It is full of people I care about and people I wish would end.

“It is full of me. Writing…It is full of me.”