meaghan murphy

RANT RANT RANT

 Why they say that ‘home is where the heart is,’ I will never be sure. You see, I don’t find my heart in the depths of covers or the spaces between novels. I’m not sure I look. My heart, the very thing in which emits the spell of intoxication and lyrical vulnerability, is wild. It is not found, but rather, sought. 
I am the raw age of 19 and perhaps this paradox of a life ahead versus a live lived is what presents the difference between those who find their hearts and those who fill their hearts. I fill my heart with gardens. I fill my heart with the sound of the violin, dancing in a crowd, and the benevolent force in which draws me to the delicacy of pink frosting. I fill my heart with literature, sunrises, redamancy, the sound of rain in the evening, hallucination, vinyl, the salt of the ocean, suffering, and the wonders in which I cannot acknowledge, for they are those I wish to hold sacred. 
It is now, in the solitude of moonlight, that my heart feels distant. It is dreaming of dawn in Manhattan, blooming with the city over a cup of earl grey. It is yearning for the jungle who cannot be sought but only discovered; the one we recognize as more human-like than most we find on the streets, for it’s every breath of nature is alive. It is wishing to see the face of a mother as she watches the happiness a book has brought to her son who never in his life asked for more than love. 
My heart is foreign in this very moment. But me, I am home. So if I were to say “take me away,” would you?
 // 
Meaghan Murphy