There is a place called home, but my house has nothing to do with it. I feel nothing as I walk in the front door to all the familiarity, the grounds of memories in my life. No, home—my home—is wherever my imagination takes me, far away from the confines of this town. Home is each and every new place that my characters, my friends, want to go. It’s every new heart, soul, and spirit that plants a seed in my head and grows into something that no one’s ever seen before. Some people can’t run fast enough in their nightmares; mine is simply not being able to see the people that live in my head. If I couldn’t leave this world for at least five minutes every day, I’d just be a corpse waiting for humanity to kill me.
I live for this. Nothing gratifies me more than breathing my life into a new essence, creating something amazing out of absolutely nothing at all. And I like to believe that these images in my head are more real and human than my peers and fellow human beings. They’re flawed, emotional, and covered with the scars that I idolize them for. But they’re far more perfect than anyone I know. People aren’t reliable. They aren’t always there for you and always pretend to understand you, everything you’ve ever been through. They think they can provide an outlet for everything that you’re holding within your heart and expect you to trust them. They think they can lead you home. They have no idea how to navigate me home. They don’t know my home. The only people that know me, through each and every corner of my soul, don’t exist.

At least that’s what people tell me. They still don’t know how very wrong they are. The only reason that I’m able to drift through your home is because their spirits guide me. Their blood flows through my veins. Their home is my home. I am my home.