Do contents always need containers? Are our skins containers for our souls? An empty body means no more than a severed finger on a bed of ice.
Is that empty house a home?
Things inside of things. Things outside of things. Things holding things. Things being held. Things in the right places, inside or outside. (Things inside that are meant to be inside. Things outside that are meant to be outside; and so on.)
Am I outside of where I’m meant to be? Or am I inside of where I need to get out of?
Time will reveal all, but I think I’ve waited long enough. Then again, if I cross the line too many times, will there still be a line? If we jump back and forth – back and forth and back and forth and back and forth – over a boundary, is it a boundary anymore? Don’t those two sides become one place? One place with no sides; a place with half the choices?
If I am here, where are you?