Thursday, November 27, 2014

Home

I'm home. And happy. What do I do at home? Nothing, that's the point. Home has always meant this feeling of utter formlessness. It's not laziness per se, even when I work or run errands, the feeling is there. At home I reach this level of comfort that takes me out of my physical self and it's just my head and my thoughts floating around in yellow coloured (my bedroom walls) bliss. I'm a daydreamer and it's back here that I am at my most secure, I feel the safest to disconnect from everything and just, dissolve. I can push away any and every worldly concern and simply become: a swirl of ideas. It doesn't mean that is all I do, but the comfort comes from knowing I can. 

This home, for me, is not about the people. It's not my mother who keeps pestering me to get up already, or my sister. I do love them, but home has to do with the place. The yellow-green-walled, amazingly unprejudiced place that has been a patient collector of my experiences, good and horrible, for twenty two years. It's a connection with the past. It was past-me who survived, and loved and thought a great deal, and who transformed to make this-me happen. But she left a part of her in this room, that is my home. I sound like a hopeless romantic, I  probably am. 

I'm all for change, now. In the words of an awesome friend of mine, change is fixed and constant. And I'm surprised, I actually like it. I have only tiptoed away from my fluttering nothingness, I am well aware of that, but even in those three steps I have discovered a little treasure. But as wise old Terry Pratchett put it,

"The important thing about having lots of things to remember is that you've got to go somewhere afterwards where you can remember them, you see? You've got to stop. You haven't really been anywhere until you've got back home."

Isn't that perfectly true? Home is remembrance. It's Wordsworth's couch.

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