Home is ethereal
a place that doesn't seem right, even when you're supposedly there
but you're desperate to return to when you find yourself far away.
Sometimes it's a person,
a thing,
hell- sometimes it's a dog
or a type of food.
Is it supposed to remind you of childhood?
Friends... friendship?
Love? Family?
Are you supposed to wrap yourself up in the comfort of the blanket of 'home'?
Or jump through the closest window, hoping for a not-too wrenching fall
when you hit the ground
of a reality that leaves in an open desert of the wide world,
a naked figure in a monsoon storm.
The physical place, the house that I remember-
...what little I'm allowed to remember...
that place doesn't remind me of anything I care to carry forward.
Or maybe the reality of the thing, home, is that it's never there, it's constantly re-imagined
a hallucination
a dream
something to strive for when you're low.
I'm home, for now... and I don't know how,
or why I was allowed back in
but it feels
warm? fresh? like I've been brought back in time but with the knowledge of my older self...
and I want to DO WORK
I want to tackle the world again.
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