The idea of being at ‘home’
Home is not a place but an idea. I have juggled around various concrete spaces with different rates of rent per sq-ft. Some extremely spacious and some small yet cozy but none of them were homes when we entered them. None of them became home after we filled them with all our household items. They became a home by habit. They became a home after we found safety and peace after returning from a storm. They became our home when we didn’t have to guess the switch for the lamp on your right. They became our home when we had breathed in every bit of air that those walls could keep. They became our home when we were comfortable with its fallacies. Home is habitual comfort that we have access to. Home is a cage where we voluntarily live .
I know that home can be people too. I have built many houses within hearts of others and luckily I get to visit some of them often. But some have been abandoned like the many houses within my heart that sometimes make it too heavy to bear. I realised after long that I haven’t built a home within. I haven’t built comfort and familiarity with myself. I don’t yet know myself, I am just a space with all my essentials but I am not my home. I don’t know the switch to my heart, yet. I don’t know what truly makes me happy, which switch seizes the darkness away. I want to be my home. I want to feel at home when things go wrong outside, I want to run within and find a space to be fine. Why do we feel lost in chaos? Because we haven’t built a home within, As if we are exiled from our own body.
I want to know myself, I want to build a home within, I want to come home from the stormy night and never find the lights dim.
