When I think of home I don’t ever really think of a place so much as a feeling, or to be more specific I think of the people I felt at home with.
To be quite honest, I’ve never really felt “at home”, I am not even sure what that means. What I do know is that I keep moving around in search for a feeling that I can’t help but believe is lost. It’s like trying to grasp air.
Sometimes I get those tingles as if home was close, and with each passing experience I have recognized that home is within myself, but most importantly I have seemed to place it in others.
Currently I feel like I am without a home. I finally, for a brief moment felt at home again, it was just a flicker, I found home within someone. Or at least I felt what I wanted home to feel like. Since that person left I have been time traveling, day dreaming, drifting to a place that is not the present. It’s a heavy weight to carry.
I wake up in a panic that the feeling is slipping away, that it will forever be lost and my instinct is to run, flee and abandon the relationships that I’ve built and hide away, because the thought of losing “home” so many times is unbearable.
Traveling has that double bind; the desire to meet new people and also the fear of the heartache when you inevitably say goodbye. I knew this was part of it, but I hadn’t expected to find that feeling of home again within another person.
So when I think of home I think of the laughter that was shared, the tears that were shed, the great heart opening, the space, the support; and that is what home feels like. It’s not a place for me, it’s what I feel in a single moment.
And now part of that feeling is across the globe, pulling me away from what is right in front of me.
I must stop time traveling.
