“Humans are usually in a constant search for a place to call home. “
When I was a little girl, I found safety in words. So i read, alot. Books became my Haven. In books i was a hero, I ruled in that world. In books I lived through so many stories, several lifetimes. I lived through romance, thrills, mystery, investigative, deep love stories, legend stories….. In books i was unstoppable. It was the only place where I felt adequate.
In books I was not; an annoying little sister, or pathetic little girl that hang on every word dearest daddy said, or the girl mommy wished was a boy because she cut her hair often and didn’t care about shopping, or the girl that betrayed her best friend or a selfish self absorbed brat, or lazy daisy, or daddy’s girl, or my parents favorite kid, or the all dolled up girl who walked around like she was special, or teachers pet… In books I was undefined, I didn’t have a label. I was wild, I lived in the jungle. I was raised by the wolves, bears kept me safe and hunted by lions. In books I was married to a doctor, had kids and cheated on my dead husband with his best friend. In books I saved cities, I saved lives. In books I was everything. So, I made words my home. Some of my favorite stories i read from the Bible; Samson’s story, I was Delilah . I loved Eve on the creation story. I was the prostitute that washed Jesus feet. Bible stories did fascinate me; I read, retold them and performed some.I looked forward to story time with grandma too, she loved telling stories from the Bible. When she narrated I liked to imagine myself as the villain, sometimes the hero, sometime the underdog……
Now words slash books slash poems slash words don’t feel like home, not anymore. They stop making sense when I started spewing them or should I say play with them. When I started writing my story instead of living written stories. I shouldn’t have. I know I shouldn’t. But that’s all I have left. To stay afloat, to stay alive, I write my soul away. Even when I feel homesick.
All I do all day is long for home. Maybe if I write some more I will feel at home again. Maybe home is one more blog post away. Maybe one more story away. Maybe one more wish away. I already gave up the concept that home might be two arms willing to hold me or a voice on the other end or just another Human being. Let’s be honest, four walls never felt like home as a little girl, it sure won’t be one now. I find solace in the words I whisper to myself late at night, half drunk and half lonely. I find solace in the words I find in music. I find solace in the words I read from stories. They don’t feel like home, but at least they act like Band-Aids. I’m really afraid that one day I will wake up to find that someone ripped off the Band-Aids, hammering the last nail on the coffin. I’m afraid that will seal my fate of being forever homeless. But it hasn’t happened yet, no point worrying about events that may or may not happen.
I hope to be home someday. I don’t remember the last time I felt safe and warm. I have been walking on eggshells, trying to make sense of why am freezing when it’s sunny, and sad when am smiling. I’m trying to understand why I read books but I’m never a character anymore, just a bored narrator somewhere. Doing everything in my power to stay alive long enough to find this place or thing or whatever they call home. I long for it, I hope to be home someday.