the art of coming home.
“ you’ve never felt at home, don’t you? “
and now, i finally am coming home.
i thought of my hometown,
a pretty island with pretty beaches.
but there’s something about living near the ocean;
your footnotes were erased so easily by the waves,
perhaps that’s why i grew up feeling forgettable.
at some point of my life, i find solace in that concept.
of my presence being a passing wind — a face you could not ever remember,
one you don’t store in your hippocampus.
so maybe if i die and turn into bubbles on the surface of a sea like the little mermaid,
i pay a little bow out of respect for my legacy — of the place i grew up at.
yet i will be evaporate,
the waves still crash against the shore,
nothing will ever change.p
home has always been a strange concept to me.
when i was young, i asked my private english tutor in curiousity:
“ miss, what is the difference between ‘house’ and ‘home’? “
as the cliche saying say, the poetic answer would be: a house is a place, a home is a person.
alas, a nine year old wouldn’t understand.
she laughed and say both are the same,
but during my teenage years i learnt a house meant a building and a home meant the feeling of belonging to a place, or a person, or literally, anything.
another saying i also learnt is that, curiousity killed the cat.
i know the ‘poetic’ differences between a house and a home, but i don’t know what home feels like.
i never felt like i belong somewhere, or to anyone.
i began my journey of finding a home.
but maybe the scariest thing is to learn other teenagers usually mourn the places they call ‘home’ when they left. house, school, class, classmates, best friends, even worn out plushies.
i don’t really feel attachment towards those. i just left, move to another phase of my life without any remorse.
at some point it scares me, i wish i know how it feels to miss something that once belonged to me. except the joke is, nothing belonged to me — at least i don’t feel so.
how could you feel homesick when you don’t have a home?
first time i touch the idea of home, wasn’t exactly when i left something, as i learnt.
i also learnt that missing something doesn’t only come with the price of distance or hurt.
it was when i met my best friends,
it was when i woke up early just to eat cereal and listen to music before class,
it was when i schedule my crying session and get up again, then study.
it was when i chose happiness,
it was when i chose loving,
it was when i chose peace.
i know this is too big of vague ideas.
but it is when i walk extra miles to go to my friend to study together
it wasn’t even something i wanted to learn,
but i still did. i took a picture of a flower, and continue my walk.
it is when i ordered a gojek to take me from west to south jakarta then back just to cry,
my driver didn’t ask and just drive,
but i let the wind blew my hair and my pain away just slightly. and i still take my keys from my pocket to open my door.
and it is when i tell my life ‘lore’ to a best friend and she sobbed,
i laughed at her because i actually found it (my life) funny.
but also, she told me i deserve happiness.
do you know the first time ever i got a birthday cake (beside from my family) was when i am of the ripe age of nineteen?
and at that year, i got five birthday cakes?
i still cackle remembering it, i remember putting the slices of cakes in tupperwares and sharing them.
there will always be a slight hint of anxiousness, if all of these were a dream.
or if i have took it for granted.
or if this might be the last time.
but just between the call of my name followed by a laughter,
or my cat rubbing his head on my knees,
or the passing wind on my way home with gojek,
everything that exists in this world reminds me;
this, is home.
this is where i belong.
this is where i live.
and i sure damn did create this home, all thanks to a leap of faith.
to still seek what i never understood — a home.
i made a space for my own unique puzzle to fit.
my friends always call me FOMO, an abbreviation of Fear Of Missing Out.
i always laugh, i never felt insulted. because i am, i don’t wanna miss a chance for anything with people i love in this world.
i prayed for it even!
a million times more of laughters shared between us,
a million more cinema movies to watch with the excuse of ‘healing’,
a million more and more and more words to explain to everyone how grateful i am to live this life.
i had a little game with my friends, of how FOMO someone is. we gave each others silly little scenarios, one of them was:
“ would you rather go on the 2012's (the end of the world movie) ship with all of your friends then die or survive alone because you slept at your bedroom? “
first option, in a heartbeat. for you are only alive when you put meaning in it. for one more precious shared moment with everyone i love equals a fulfilling life.
and the earth is ridiculously weird and beautiful, because i’ll go through every single pain i did when i was younger to reach this point — where home exist.
it exist within my courage to embrace the people around me and love them so much,
it exist within my courage to find peace when a hurt let alone myself being disrespected,
it exist within my courage to keep walking within this journey.
and if given the chance to live again,
i will look at everything in awe and curiousity,
i will do anything again for a shared laughter,
i will find my best friends again,
i will listen to the music i love throughout the years again,
the earth is beautiful, isn’t it?
part of this journey healed something in me,
if i envisioned it; it’s as if i go back to slowly regressing into my younger self.
these days i find myself doing more and more silly things,
laughing even louder than i did,
and wearing my heart in the sleeve and loving people around me all i might do that my heart could pop like a bubble.
dearest reader, if you came to this point. i hope you also find a way to come home.
the home you built,
with your own special little trinkets,
walls colored with perhaps weird combination of colors that you love,
picture frames of all your core memories,
and a warm, neatly made bed to sleep.
