After a week in Los Angeles, I feel very confused about the word 'home.' I guess it's a place that you take with you, or a tendency to make the best out of what you already have. My home is wherever I am whether I like it or not. Which is why it's so confusing. Sometimes home sucks. Sometimes it's really where the heart is. Sometimes it's a shit motel room with cable TV and yellow lamp lighting, but you share it with someone who makes you feel safe. The way I feel is the interior design of whatever abode I occupy... so I must always be cautious not to give into anger or depression. Home is without morbid architecture.
Still unsure if my chakras are balanced -- if things were actually working out for me I might believe with intense conviction that every piece is in its right place. Then again... maybe there aren't "right places" for pieces to be. There aren't "right homes." There are only places and homes. And feelings to decorate each space in time. I'm grounded by virtue of being alive.
Chicwish peach dress, OASAP peach kimono, YES Pound sandals c/o Solestruck, Vanessa Mooney jewelry
Everything is infinite,