She's a creature of habit, the worst kind of habit- the habit of leaving. The habit of changing. The habit of loving too much and being afraid of her own heart, the habit of dissatisfaction, of always wondering if this is all there is. It's not, of course it's not. She's a foreign soul searching for home, the best of eternity awaits. Meanwhile the clock is ticking away asking where is meaning in this mediocre day. So she'll pack up and start wandering until her feet cool their itching and her legs calm their twitching and her fingers rest their fidgets. She'll hold on her heart and pray not to lock it away, hoping that someday she'll set it loose to love completely, to not hold back any of it's strength. She'll reign it in to stick it out, to learn to stay, dig her roots, sprout her petals and open her heart; to live here, now. And nowhere else in any other time, because tomorrow can worry about itself, and on the day that she decides to stay, she'll be happy where she stands, in that moment of that day; until she reaches home.