I am beginning to understand. Maybe not everyone is meant for everyone, maybe I’m not even meant for myself. I carry myself as if I could just start to float at any time, almost untouchable to an extent. When I’m floating because I can’t keep still, I have to move, think, speak constantly and it would just be easier to be a lightweight rather than having to be pushed down. But I’m learning to sink back into the pull of gravity. I’m learning to try and find the home that’s a part of the body I live in and I’m just trying to wrap my head around it. How can you hate your own home? How can you hate what covers you and keeps you warm in the winter? Yet, here I am. Still cold. Tucked in my plaid pants and boots, hovering over a fire trying to find the warmth that should be inside of me. The cozy and soft part of me that I should feel when looking at myself. Nonetheless, my teeth are still chattering and my hair has turned into a solid. But the circulation that was once lost, is regaining its motion. My fingers once blue are turning back into a tan beige. I am not completely warm, not even close. But I am beginning to find the home that hasn't felt warm until now.