From Jonathan Vittachi (@jonnyjujubes):
I’ve been away, living in a foreign country for years. Away from home and essentially all I’ve known my whole life. I finished up what I was there to do and returned home, or at least to what I call home. Doesn't feel like that anymore to me, it’s more like where my things are.
Walking along the beach, I thought back to my expedition that was coming to a close, and how glad I was to get back to Chris. Home is where the heart is, after all, and mine is with him. We’d soon be embarking on our own journey together and I was thrilled at the prospect.
Home is where the heart is. It is the place to where you can return, and feel like you never left. It’s where every smell, every sound is like an old friend. It’s like returning to the arms of a lover, safe in their embrace, knowing that while you are there – everything will be okay.
"Hurry up everyone! The goons are coming to capture our land" echoed all over the forest.
"But why!?" enquired a wretched voice.
"To build houses in our homes".
"Now where shall we live!?" *sobbed bitterly*
Desperately departed the families in search of refuge with a heavy heart.
The car stopped. He got down and walked up to the door. He unlocked the door and walked into the house. No one.
There was not a soul inside. He walked about the house which held memories of a long gone time. Nostalgia overtook him.
After years he had come. But this was not home.
From @Saumya Fernando:
The place of familiarity. The place of chaos and simplicity. The place I yearn for when weary. The place of endless memories. The one place of complete freedom. The place of absolute safety. The only place that smells of Amma’s cooking. The place I would be compelled to leave soon with a heavy laden heart.
She walked up the cobbled path leading up to the driveway. Breathed in the familiar frangipanis on the tree, several scattered on the ground. Coral blue Beetle parked in the garage and her mother at the door, smiling with tears streaming down her wrinkled face.
Home, it finally struck her. Her heart skipped a beat.
Reached for during years in 7 cities, 3 continents, passport lines, exit row seats, favourite cafes, rented apartments, train platforms on another missed Aurudu: the delicious heat of being cooked in a car stuck in school rush traffic at Thimbirigasyaya junction - perfumed by uncollected garbage. Once this nomadic exile's most treasured instant sensation of home.
Beneath the eight moons, far beyond the echoes of the Milky Way, somewhere in between her three breasts, I found home. Her purple eyes reflected the belt of a thousand stars in the Orion sky and the comforting darkness of its endless backdrop, stretching into the depths of the tempting unknown, devoid of toxic humanity.
"There will be someone better, I promise you. You'll find some..."
"Stop it" she snapped. "I'm not a child, and I don't expect to be treated as one". *click*
He stared at his empty home screen, not a trace of the previous phone-call to be found, and sighed.
“Home,” his college classmates would sigh longingly. He could see that “home” meant safety to them – unconditional love, care, a place of belonging. It was a concept alien to him. His personal definition of the word included screaming, accusations, alcoholic rages, whippings and worse. “Home” was everything he wanted his life not to be.
Have your heart be where feet are. Have your home be where feet are. Have your feet be where your heart finds home. In the solitude of self.
(Inspired by Rumi)
If home is where the heart is, why do we hurt the ones we love the most? Love the ones who hurt us the most? Give everyone/thing precedence over our homes? If home is where the heart is, do we only value it when it stops?
The Man 11th Hour!
Loft in a flat
yet life is fake.
Oft have pizza
Coke and flake.
Leave home daily:
damn night shift!
Feels déjà vu
whilst in the lift:
All day long
it merely packs
Unknown faces and
I'm getting older
day by day;
Here's the fortune
but an inch away!
The sky sleeps, the moon shines,
The air I breath is cool and soft,
To see the nice, the glories,
Must find my way, "home...."
Not a place to go, but to live,
A place to stay, yet to feel,
To shine like the stars above,
Where I can be me, my "home...."
From Daiyaan (@nazthewiz):
That day, seemed, the clock stopped ticking, wholly.
But it wasn't so, the clock continued ticking, we are moving on, and everybody too.
It was only dad's clock that wholly stopped.
What was, his home yesterday, its mine today, and could be anyone's tomorrow.
I sit quietly, and wonder,
Is there any place that we really can call home?