The man wanted to see the world, but started to miss home.
He tried to stay put in the place where he found himself, but home was in his heart and his heart was in his chest and his chest was connected to feet that were still walking away.
The place he left wasn't the home inside his chest.
That home never existed anywhere--as far as he knew--but it may be out there still.
The possibility of home's existence somewhere out there in the world kept him going to places he'd never been.
God knows the places he had already seen weren't his home.
They weren't quite right, and he wasn't right either.
He left home to get right.
He was looking for a place to be, but first he was needing to be.
He had done plenty of doing, but didn't know what being was really like.
And sadly, there weren't too many others around him that could show him how being was done.
People somewhere else--in a place that wasn't this--could maybe show him how to be.
Being had to be separate from location, occupation, expectation, and participation.
Being must be like breathing for your soul.
His soul had been suffocated by too much doing.
His body had tried to act separately from his soul.
And where soul is neglected, what once was a man becomes a hollow beast, striving for nothing more than food, sleep, and some shallow form of companionship.
A hollow beast he became.
Now the man has returned to a physical location called home. It's in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountain range in Northern California. Home is still in his heart, and it is made more full by some of the people around these parts, so, for now, he'll say that he's home. But home he's not yet realized, and maybe he never will.
He's just going to be for now.