Is it the sky today,

the way that the wind's pushing the clouds,
or is it the late day sun
stretching the shadows over the ground,
that brings on these memories
of people and places that I've never seen
and voices so strange and so sweet,
asking me softly, oh yeah ...

Where is my home?

Where is my home?

What makes this person me?
Is it the little town where I was born?
Or maybe it's history,
the faces of family I've never known -

somewhere across the sea
where my great-grandmother left long ago
under a cold crying moon,
looking for something, mm ...

Where is my home?
Where is my home?

Where is my home?

Where is my home?

Where is my home?
The walls of a city,
painted with promises and words so unkind?
Where is my home?
The trees of a country
where autumn came suddenly,
that I'll never find ...

But then there's your face, my dear -
I know I'll never be walking alone.
The love in your eyes makes it clear,
telling me softly, mm ...
This is my home.

This is my home, oh yeah.

This is my home.

This is my home.

I really wish I knew where my home was right now. I feel so drifty lately, unattached to anything. I can reason out several places in this world that could be called my home ... but I just feel like an outsider.

Where is my home? The house I've lived in for over 15 years with my much-loved family? With the other one I love so very much? With my God? There could be arguments built for any of the three answers.

Love has its reasons that reason cannot see.

Perhaps they are all home. Perhaps none of them are home. Perhaps I do not have a home yet. I know I will, someday, somewhere, somehow. It just hurts to be unattached. I want to be attached. I want to be able to breathe deeply and know that I am in my place in the world.

I am not, not right now. I am in between, in limbo. I have places to stay, I have people to be with, I have an eternal Home. All of those are homes in their own ways, but right now I just feel ... disconnected.

How did I get out of this last time? I don't remember.

Where is my home?

The walls of a city,

painted with promises and words so unkind?

Where is my home?

The trees of a country

where autumn came suddenly,

that I'll never find ...

Where is my home?

Where is my home?

Where is my home?

Where is my home?

There's no place like 127.0.0.1.