Home — where I don’t mind being me.

In the early days of June, I feel the essence of the coming season, when salty days turn into glowing nights, where dusk seems to last forever.

Tonight I stand on the roof of my apartment and take in the familiar city, Los Angeles, a treasure chest of memories.

I’ve traveled its roads and met good people; I’ve grown here.

Maybe now’s the time to leave, to impart what’s on my mind is to stray away from structure and sense.

I know there’s more than simply what we’re able to comprehend, though it’s difficult to walk away.

I wonder if I’ll always come back.

Planes go up; ships come in, trains go by — to where?

For thousands of years, this silent desert with its cool wind and sparse trees cracked on the surface and wept; its tears a gift to those searching for life.

While civilizations emerged in the mountains of China and on the waves of the Mediterranean Sea — as tribes battled and laughed in the heart of Europe and the forests of India — Native American cultures developed along the Pacific Coast.

They traveled and stopped to rest; they persisted and discovered.

Years pass, but the day remains constant. The sun rises and falls, and we do what we can to make the time worthwhile.

Cultures rose in unison, yet unaware, different planets but the same.

The spirit of our ancestors gives breath to the earth. We can feel the soul of the past sweeping through the world at every turn; nothing can be without them.

I’ve seen this city come and go. I’ve seen it build and crumble and come back stronger.

This moment is for living; nights like tonight when it’s only me, thinking of the future and the past and what brought me here; the only way is forward.

The memory fades, but the heart endures.

My shoulders feel light despite the weight of the day, the pressure instead burdens the space inside my head.

I tell myself to let go of what means nothing, all that isn’t before me now.

Within my soul exists the quintessential piece of me, a fountain to drink from, a pillow to lay my head upon, a place I call my home.

I watch the planes travel past the waves and ocean breeze until the sound of motion dissolves.

Above the clouds, only silence prevails. What matters isn’t material but spiritual, beautiful, and weightless.

A plane pierces through the clouds to ascend upon the material world, back to everyday life. Individuals look down on me and I up to them — both minds question how to be, what to say, what’s to this game called living below the clouds.

The plane slowly coasts through the dark blue skies, gradual and with a plan, like the ticking of a clock where the seconds fall away.

The clouds look as if they may bring rain. They are in no hurry, maybe passing through to leave a trace — it’s tough to say.

Nothing’s right or wrong at this moment; it only is. The life of the cold wind blows against my skin — my mind drifts and I with it, unsure where, but I’m happy.

I carry my home with me, anywhere, everywhere, where I don’t mind being me.