Tuesday, 15 July 2014

she is not home.

She is not home. She’ll never be. She is the safe house I go to, but not home. I feel safe, but I don’t feel that coziness, that heartwarming sensation I had at home. She is not where I grew up, that house to which I knew all the secrets, all the sounds it had to offer, and what made them. I knew the shortcuts, places to hide, and whenever I need to be alone, that secret room, abandoned long ago by anyone who isn’t me. And even though I know the address perfectly and still have a key, I can’t get into my home, because it’s not mine anymore. It’s not that I don’t like her, I do. She’s special, unique… but not home. She doesn’t bring the memories of my childhood friends, adventures, or the taste of my mother’s cooking. And I know, as much as I like exploring new houses, getting to know their secrets and sounds, and all those things that make them unlike any other house there is, there will never be another home.

No comments:

Post a Comment