How I wonder of my home.

Like a 70s feminist, I want it all: the overseas life, the asian life, the city life, the hometown life, the across the country life, the little cabin in the woods where no one can find me life.

If I were paper, these desires would have ripped me to shreds by now. It’s enough to practice yoga just to prepare the body for multiple pulls.

Is it that I don’t believe in any one perfectness? That, not unlike a person, no one place has all the things that will soothe me like a hot bath or the grass under my feet.

Or is it even simpler than that? Is it that I just lack a sense of focus that others seem to possess that I have termed ‘rut’ on so many occasions?

I would settle for a rut in place and in person if only I knew which ones to settle for.

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