There is always a home that you live in and the one that you feel like home. In this constant debacle of finding one's true home, we give up on the people who once opened the doors for you and said, "Hey! Welcome. Make yourself comfortable."
You enter their lives like a kid lost in the food-truck fair and each step that you take further on welcomes you to the atrocity of awkwardness that prevails in the first smiles of knowing nothing and nobody. The symmetry of a being is then distorted to pieces when the asymmetry of homelessness dawns on a being. Being a vagabond, I like to say that I have a corner of home every part of my existence. But is it so? Walking with every strand of flowing hair through the wind and reminiscing how I have felt and been homeless for quite a while now. The materialisation of a home isn't the four walls with food for me. Home is the feeling of raindrops running down my eyes in the slow sounds of pitter patter when home hugs me and asks me, "How are you? Really!"
The feeling of feeling safe in the between the ass-grabbers and insecurity builders, there is that one home that will embrace you with blank slates and will love you no matter what. To identify that one feeling is pretty deceiving in the process. Every new touch of warmth feels like this is a place to redecorate and build up as your own. You figure, that every beam of sunlight coming from that one single identity or place is worth to be in, forever. The fact is, the sun has to set. The sky will turn into the hue of crimson and grey and for once it is dark. So dark, that the home you are in seems to lose itself, withering in the flakes of the wall that is coming out. The cups in the sink are just another reminder of how you are left in the adversity of being in the feeling of homelessness and hopelessness that no such place is good enough anymore. But nevertheless, there is a sky full of stars in the darkest hours. The home swivels its finger down your spine and suddenly you have a shiver down your body of hopes and dreams. The four walls walk to you and embrace you with arms you never knew existed in the first place. They will ask you how your day was. They will ask you what is making you flinch at the thought of being here in the first place. You are then left with an unfurnished thought of null. You do not have the answer to what the pain is or to what extent is it breaking your bones, body, and brain. You just pass it away with a gentle smile of nothing.
You enter their lives like a kid lost in the food-truck fair and each step that you take further on welcomes you to the atrocity of awkwardness that prevails in the first smiles of knowing nothing and nobody. The symmetry of a being is then distorted to pieces when the asymmetry of homelessness dawns on a being. Being a vagabond, I like to say that I have a corner of home every part of my existence. But is it so? Walking with every strand of flowing hair through the wind and reminiscing how I have felt and been homeless for quite a while now. The materialisation of a home isn't the four walls with food for me. Home is the feeling of raindrops running down my eyes in the slow sounds of pitter patter when home hugs me and asks me, "How are you? Really!"
The feeling of feeling safe in the between the ass-grabbers and insecurity builders, there is that one home that will embrace you with blank slates and will love you no matter what. To identify that one feeling is pretty deceiving in the process. Every new touch of warmth feels like this is a place to redecorate and build up as your own. You figure, that every beam of sunlight coming from that one single identity or place is worth to be in, forever. The fact is, the sun has to set. The sky will turn into the hue of crimson and grey and for once it is dark. So dark, that the home you are in seems to lose itself, withering in the flakes of the wall that is coming out. The cups in the sink are just another reminder of how you are left in the adversity of being in the feeling of homelessness and hopelessness that no such place is good enough anymore. But nevertheless, there is a sky full of stars in the darkest hours. The home swivels its finger down your spine and suddenly you have a shiver down your body of hopes and dreams. The four walls walk to you and embrace you with arms you never knew existed in the first place. They will ask you how your day was. They will ask you what is making you flinch at the thought of being here in the first place. You are then left with an unfurnished thought of null. You do not have the answer to what the pain is or to what extent is it breaking your bones, body, and brain. You just pass it away with a gentle smile of nothing.
So now, the darkness has prevailed. You have made your own black hole and you just don't seem to see stars anymore. All of a sudden, you give up hope on it too. In the constant fight of belonging you seem to belong only to yourself. It is in between the process of change to a realisation where you know where you are at with every count of breath. This is time to say goodbye to the home you were in. Home has started to push you away with the same pair of arms it embraced you with. The smell of home isn't familiar anymore and your appetite for anything remotely inside it is turning into anger and disappointment.
But the most beautiful part about losing a home is finding a mansion filled with love. You take constant loans of hope and build on to payoff for the exchange of just a mere touch of love. To each and every step, stop by and say, "Thank you, thank you for stopping by. Just leave the door open for me. Will you?"
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