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You were never born, you have always existed.

But on a physical level, you were born in the mind of a higher power, less honorably in a massive explosion in space called the Big Bang.

You were born in and with the stars inside of a black hole.

You were born in the Milky Way galaxy on a planet called Earth.

You were born in the womb of another human, cat, turtle, fish, monkey, and etcetera.

You came into existence as the spore of a mushroom or the seed of a tree.

Wherever it was, you were not born where or when you think you were.

Your home is a vehicle composed of bones, the stretcher bars of a canvas; of skin, the canvas itself; of squishy, delicate systems that are interdependent of each other, much like those in the vehicle you drive on the road, made of metal and gasoline.

On a greater scale, your home is where you lay your head at night, whether it be your house in your town that you are familiar with or a park bench in a town you don't want to be in.

Your home is my home is the birds' home is the bees' home.

For right now, you aren't going anywhere.

You are on this planet, and you can only be on this planet.

You can travel any distance measurable by humans that you want, but you still won't go anywhere.

Eventually, you may go to another galaxy in another universe in another dimension, but that time has not come yet, so don't define your life by "where you go" because you are already where you are supposed to be.

You are converting oxygen into carbon dioxide, food into vitamins and minerals, and images and sounds into thoughts.

You are driving around a vehicle of flesh and bones through time and space, and sometimes traffic.

You are deciding, loving, hating, laughing, and crying.

You are spewing weird fluids and objects out of your body, sometimes by choice, other times not.

You are taking a whack at this mysterious thing called life, and you are doing the best you can.