Home.
What is it?
I’ve always found it difficult to write about home in
the same way that I can capture a faraway sky. Lately, I’ve been feeling like a
stateless drifter; unsure if I have a place, a land, somewhere that I can call
mine.
The thing is, I’m not entirely sure where home is anymore. Is it the buttery stone of a
city or the sweep of rolling hills? Is it the place of contained elegance or
the wild, rugged valleys? I’m conflicted. When I’m at one, I want to be at the
other, and when I’m at the other…well, you get the idea.
I was raised in the shadows of mountains and now I
sleep under the amber glow of urban life.
Neither one is bad, but I exist in a state of contrast. I guess my mind wonders
which person I must be today. It’s like I have different faces for different places. Hurried, sophisticated, aloof.
Genuine, adventurous, relaxed. I pick and choose personalities like a t-shirt,
or discarded socks.
Somehow, I’ve lost my grasp on what home means. And
sure, there is no place like it but
I’m beginning to realise that home isn’t quite a destination. It isn’t a house,
or a bed, or four walls peppered with posters and old photographs. Home isn’t
where you were born, or where you were raised; not where you went to school,
either.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that home is people.
Those who are the warm embrace and the nest of plumped pillows. The ones that
make you feel loved, safe and protected. You know that this home doesn’t require costly insurance in the event of unforeseen
disasters. You know where to find it. At your side with a welcome mat and the
kettle already boiled.
