Home is an instinct.
It is the body of a lover that you can recognise in the dark. It is a momentary glimpse of the familiar, a stare that reflects on your soul, a feeling that makes sense in its wholeness, but cannot be dissected, felt or analysed in smaller parts.
Home is a birthmark.
Home is memory.
A scar on your skin from when you were little, the smell of your mother’s embrace and the voices of your loved ones. It is the room that eases your fear after a petrifying nightmare, the refuge after a long day and the place where solitude becomes bearable.
Home is comfort.
Home was comfort.
It is now the place where your hope withered away, your eagerness to contribute was rejected, your future was stolen. It is the host of a thousand regrets and gives rise to maddening thoughts of anger towards a people confused and polarised and desperate.
Home is despondency.
Home is dichotomy.
Ante-crisis; post-crisis. It is fear of the future, it is denial and distrust, weariness. Home is disheartening and disheartened.
It has been bleeding for a long time and won’t stop, most likely, until it bleeds out. Home is the homeless and the refugee camps and the vast unemployment numbers, it is tolerance of deplorable social phenomena, governmental negligence, injustice, a skewed political landscape that in the end will shove and push you away and as you break away, you’ll also break free and break your heart.
And you are lucky, nevertheless.
Home is guilt.
It disappoints the hopeful, the youth, those capable of and needing change. It shatters relationships and expectations, it bends the truth and rails against reason, it deprives you of allies and friends. Home is a solitary, mundane search for a semblance of normality, a sense of belonging.
Home is detachment.
Home is a load.
You will carry it around and it will slow you down, but you won’t fit through the door. You will love it beyond reason and detest it because you do. Home will not grant you closure.
Home is a loose end.