If I don't know where I'm from, you ask, how will I know where I'm going?

Fair enough.

Here's my best answer:

I am from a little boy crying because I turned his amoeba of green paint into a t-rex.

I was raised on Grandma's fresh-from-the-oven challah

And "lily of the valley"

And the dolphin wind chimes; Mommy would make the baby dolphin swim up to kiss his mother goodnight over and over.

Home is rain coursing down the windowpane, frustrated that it can't get inside, where I'm safe in a warm sweater with a good book and a cat in my lap

But don't go thinking I'm just a homebody

I am also born of the highest peaks of bliss

And the murderous frost of their valleys

I have memorized the map from the black hole of unrequited admiration to the faraway star of starved perfection, so easy to miss that exit, then the route to the planet under obsession's dictatorship

Now I am cartographing the map that will take me

Home

Wherever that is eighteen years later

So yes, I do know where I'm going for all intents and purposes

But thanks for your concern.