All this while being away, I pretended that I have something to go back to. When I am around fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers, without being any of them, I keep remembering the home I have left behind. That feeling of being at home to which I surrender, in my mind palace, whenever I feel away. It is that warmth you feel during a cold winter evening, beside a fireplace. You have to stay away from the source, not to avoid getting burnt, but to face the winter. Getting burnt would be easy, it would make me alive. The pain, the sorrow, the regret-have they started to define me?
This time, I was coming back with a happy heart, a partially healed soul and the courage to be able to say goodbye more easily. My plane landed, and my dream started. Everything was happening just as I had imagined except nothing is the same. My city is the same, so are the people and the topics. Everything is exactly the same as I had left. Untouched.
The only difference is that all that is now covered with a plastic sheet which can't be torn. Everything is independent of my being and everything is exactly the same. No matter how hard I try, I cant be a part of that sameness. Suddenly, I realise that I am homeless. I am going to be always far away and a shadow. All that was dear to me is still here, but I cant touch them. I cant pierce through the plastic.
I am now floating on a box. I can never be a part of my past. It is all over. Now, I have to be at home in another city, with no friends and as a foreigner who is too familiar too the foreign land.
So maybe I was wrong. Home isn't, for me, where my past self was. That is only in my mind. Home is where rhythm is. Home is where I am doing the same things as the others. Home is where I am not different. Except, I will always be. I am homeless.
