I like my home.
It provides all of the security we need. There’s a roof to keep the sun and rain out. Walls for the wind. Heat and hydro. Running water. A moderately stocked fridge. Everything that we need to survive, we keep in our homes.
And in these homes, we have rooms. Our own private walls to keep the other animals out. It’s where we can be whatever we want to be and nobody would ever know. It’s a place for us to hide.
And in these rooms, we have our beds. Layered with sheets and pillowed to our liking. Its where we rest our bones. Its there that we grow old every night. Our bones rusting. The weight piling on. Our hair thinning. Day after day. And no matter how sore we become during our grind, we always keep going back to our beds. The same beds. In the same rooms. In the same houses.
A hobo wants more.
A hobo knows that there’s so much more out there. He knows that no matter where he goes, there’s always a floor to sleep on. A bed doesn’t have to be in a house, when the whole world is your home. A hobo is always in search of finding somewhere new to rest his bones. A new view to wake up to in the morning. A fresh perspective of the world every single morning.
Hobo bones go wherever the wind takes them. They walk. They wander. They find themselves lost. They go exactly where they’re meant to be, exactly when they’re meant to get there. A hobo makes wherever he ends up, his place to live. But no matter where he goes or where he lives, there will always only be one home.
It is in those exact moments, the ones where he finds himself somewhere new and unknown, unfamiliar and scary, that he is haunted by the thought of home. The very comfort of the walls that he once despised, come back like a curse.
Let your bones move. Let them dance. But may they always make their way back to their home.