Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.
5 10 2008I wish I were home. I miss it. Relative comfort. Familiar folk and environment.
This is not my home. Fort Knox. WTB barracks. It’s not home in word or feeling.
This place hurts. From skin to soul. I’m still unsure why I’m here. Half want to help, half of them can’t. The other half doesn’t care.
I have a heavy week upcoming. Appointments from 9:30 to 4:30 one of the days. I’m not looking forward to the pain that’s certain to come, or the humiliating neurological problems that may. That some, those whose jobs it is to help and heal, deny a problem, or perhaps more apt, the problem worsens the foreboding. All my limbs, no sucking chest wound, no piping hot metal, and all’s well. Or I’m faking it. A different standard. An absence of standard. This place is foreign. This isn’t my home.
