Home is where the heart is and visitation “rights.”

There is a phrase, a saying, that opines, “You can never go back.”

To the way it was.

Yes. For certain. Certainly for certain.

Change for the sake of change is just change.

Without truth, the narrative plays on, even plays along.

Family and Familiarity combine into a perfect storm. Of the way it was. Or the way we were. Come hell or high water the waive and the wave of a potential future. Together. One caveat: If we only stick together. Combine the forces of all evil to carry on the vices and the voices of the past.

In effect, what holds “it” all together are the sticky lies that were never told. Out loud, anyway. The ones that preferred to “come up” and out. Were the vomit of the “can’t take it anymore.”

Yet. And. Still. Below the surface, the churn continues. With the potential of explosion into tiny parts and pieces of that which was tried to be held in and down for what seemed like an eternity.

Waiting in the closed-in-box-of-me-not-letting-you-get-out-of-your-own-head-until-the-mind-games-commence-and- I get what I want come hell or high water. Stop. Or. Start. The rings run round and round one another in a heated game of cat and mouse exhaustion.

It wasn’t as simple as we thought. It will never be the same again. What will become of the old ways that keep the chain dragging like a ball and chain and choking the jugular with the same old same old.

You can never go back.

Yet. A fact remains that when and if the mind wanders to the places and spaces of before. To the smells, sounds and spaces and places where it all started. The foundation, or lack thereof of all things shaky ground. The walk becoming a dizzying array of darkness peppered with light. The light was only there to keep the ball and chain rolling in the direction of the lies and frozen stories of keeping the blank check. Blank.

So. Going back is a futile attempt to right the wrongs. Which can never be righted. Over time, truth has endurances. The good news is the lies keep changing and morphing into the unbelievable notions of the gossip and innuendo mongers that cannot seem to stop. Stop it.

In the name of truth.

In the name of lies.

At this particular point in time.

It doesn’t really matter.

Home may be where the heart is. Or was. The heart held it all together for as long as it could.

Before breaking. Into a tiny gagillion pieces of sadness and regret of the inability to speak up in the face of the evil and anger. Buried treasures of memories and tragedies at the same time all rolled into rings of treasured treachery.

The place. Was a roof and four walls of cold cement flooring covered in snazzy berber or shag plushness hiding the truth deep within its connections.

Common sense shouted loud in our heads to say something to someone about something. Fear had another plan. It kept the story contained in the mouths of the liars and the cheaters in a constant place of opportunistic endeavors of blackmail and balderdash.

For some, blood is thicker than water. Still for some, another’s blood is their only life goal. Cuts to the bone and like a knife at the exact same moment the lie spews out of the mouths of babes.

In an effort to distance, from the place and the people—- most of all the hurt. We bob and weave and desperately search for a way to leave. Dump the hurt and the memories behind us in the dust of our frenemies and enemies. The ones who knew all along the truth and chose to tighten the ball and chain in an effort to dis— credit the good one. The good guy.

Thank God. For the one. The good one. The one who knew which fights were the fights to fight.

In the best interest and with the due diligence of the greater good. Their own success not a factor in the outcome of the storm. Whatever success is defined as, person to person, alone is our freedom to choose who we believe. Not for the wheeling and dealing of lives across the tables of our lives.

By practicing the activities of truth, lies and consequences, the safety of our lives becomes the fear we live inside of. Trusting is simply too difficult. We “come out” from time to time, show face if you will, just to let the world know we are still alive.

At times, we are still dying inside. The smells, spaces and places pop up in the form of faces we recognize and those that change over time. We question our own abilities, our own beliefs, in an effort to belong in the place that never welcomed us there in the first place.

At times. Our heart, mind and will do not jive. Together. On the one hand, we are trying to cope with the places of the past. On the other hand, we pretend them not to have existed. What we are left with is a whole bunch of storm-filled activity swirling around our heads. Jittery and frozen at the same time. In the place we remember where it all began.

And desperately try to forget the innate evil-like- ability humans have to distort and demean another in the interest of building ego up into oblivion. Up is the only way we want to go. How we get there does not matter. Especially the ones who tighten the ball and chain in order to cause a trip or suffocation.

Exploration of new places may best be defined and described as a curiosity to make the world a better place. In the best interest of the greater good and the least of these at the same time.

Anything else is empty.

He alone, fills our cup. Without wheeling, dealing of the unending ball and chain drag of lies and deception.

What we have and what we do with “it” is our business. Mind our own business. Mind your own business.

We. Can shout it from the mountaintops. Or. Whisper sweet nothings til the cows come home. In the end. It matters not how we got here. It matters greatly how will we move forward with and what we have learned from the past.

Time will tell.

It always does.

And.

It always will.