Home is not what I've known

Continued from my earlier post.

I've never really felt at home, here in Canada. I've never quite fit in (a fact that has likely become very prominent in this blog). I've always felt that I'm a bird of another feather, or quite possibly, not a bird at all. A thought that has a great many people confused, irate, and sometimes just dazzled. I've always had the notion that I'm either the first or last of my kind, and no matter how many times I find someone like me, it almost always ends up being either emulation, or religion, that drives them.

If the world doesn't provide answers to the questions I have, I'll be at a crossroads. Return home, defeated by the truth that I was afraid of all this time, or disappear, only to work this world from a place outside the nail-head minds of mallgoers and pundits. I've always feared that there is no place for me in this world, and that there will never be a place that I can call home. I've always hoped that there's a little piece of heaven out there, waiting for me to pass some great trial, to cross the threshold and finally be home. Such would be a reward too long dreamed of to ever be reality, but a man can dream, can't he?

A little place where the wind whispers, but never blows. The trees shelter, but never suffocate. The grass is any colour, except brown.

Someplace that will take me, suit me, and be mine.