The pull of a good day in a good life is incredible. This unshakeable feeling, this weird urge that you cannot shake off. The persistent itch you cannot scratch. You stand in a warm pool with nothing but peace about every corner of your existence, and then you continue to tell people: this feels like paradise, but I miss my days.
Over and over, you think about this, and when the thinking gets a bit too much, you say it out loud, only for someone else to nod in agreement. At that moment, you know there is another one like you, but it does not matter; you are still stuck in paradise. It does not matter how many of you there are; at some point, the urge to come back takes over, and nothing stands in front of it. What is this about home that pulls us back so ardently? Perhaps, it is how hard the feeling comes about.
Home feels so important simply because it exists. It takes a long time to come into this existence, and even with all that it cannot offer, it offers something incomparable. To have a home is to want to go back, into your days, into your life, at all times, from all places. To feel at home in your life is to want to live it consciously. I miss my days when I am not living them, and when I am in them, I am wholly engulfed without a moment to think. What else is there to want in life? I sit alone at the airport, stuck for another half a day, waiting to get home.
As the football game echoes in the bar and drops of frost trickle about my pint of beer, I ponder over how there is so much to see and want, how life has so much to offer. But perhaps, it is only worth going somewhere when you have somewhere to come back to. Perhaps, it is only worth having special days when you have the rut to compare them to, and even in it, we must take pride. It is far too challenging to build stability than people give each other credit for; it is perhaps the most difficult thing a person must do.
Over and over, you think about this, and when the thinking gets a bit too much, you say it out loud, only for someone else to nod in agreement. At that moment, you know there is another one like you, but it does not matter; you are still stuck in paradise. It does not matter how many of you there are; at some point, the urge to come back takes over, and nothing stands in front of it. What is this about home that pulls us back so ardently? Perhaps, it is how hard the feeling comes about.
Home feels so important simply because it exists. It takes a long time to come into this existence, and even with all that it cannot offer, it offers something incomparable. To have a home is to want to go back, into your days, into your life, at all times, from all places. To feel at home in your life is to want to live it consciously. I miss my days when I am not living them, and when I am in them, I am wholly engulfed without a moment to think. What else is there to want in life? I sit alone at the airport, stuck for another half a day, waiting to get home.
As the football game echoes in the bar and drops of frost trickle about my pint of beer, I ponder over how there is so much to see and want, how life has so much to offer. But perhaps, it is only worth going somewhere when you have somewhere to come back to. Perhaps, it is only worth having special days when you have the rut to compare them to, and even in it, we must take pride. It is far too challenging to build stability than people give each other credit for; it is perhaps the most difficult thing a person must do.
Maybe, anyone can be lost; but to have a home is to be found over and over again.