#73

My sanctuary is a bit different from the norm. It’s simple and it’s elegant…and it’s entirely formless. When I think of home, when I think of a place I belong…I don’t think of a place. I do not think of a house. Nor do I think of people. I would even say I don’t really think of things. It’s just a feeling. It’s not a being. Just a strong feeling of oneness with my surroundings. It’s being able to let go of my body and to reach out and emanate inside all of the things around me and let them in to emanate inside of me as well. My sanctuary is usually in natural places; the cities are very dead to me in this sense in a large part. It’s not easy to seep into them nor do they seem to want to seep into me either. It almost has to be natural and full of life. Life seems key. It doesn’t really matter what sort of natural place, either. Even places I barely have any familiarity with I can reach into and let them into me. Ugly places. Beautiful places. It doesn’t matter. They are as much my home as any house. Probably more so than a house; houses strike me as mere shells of life in many ways.