The Hermit Looks for Home

I wander and wander looking for a place to make home.

I ask the echoes, ‘What is home?’ The echoes chime back with the voices of those at home,

“What is home if not the place where someone still thinks of you?

What is home if not the first place you run from?

Home isn’t a place, it’s a person, a feeling.”

 

But to me, home isn't just a quippy one-liner perfect for a carousel post.

What is home if not all these beautiful things?

 

I hear all the echoes and I wonder. What is it to me?

To me, home is angry and resentful.

It is the mirror I hate looking into ’cause it’s never said a good thing about me.

Home is where there is loud anger and quiet punishment.

 

Home is wondering if my outfit will invite the anger of my mother or the mockery of my father.

To me, home is staying in my room all day till all the prying eyes are closed.

It is the little comments and off-handed remarks that etch themselves on my soul.

Home is the place that I long for, but has made me a Hermit.

 

But what is my home? A home I want to create.

To me, home is just a room of my safest sounds.

No loud anger, no explosive arguments, no subtle punishments.

It is a place for me to invite people over when I feel lonely.

Home is welcoming, nurturing, and inviting.

 

Home isn’t luxury or a life of fantasy.

To me, home is just a place to quietly read my favourite book again.

It is a mirror of reflections which doesn't make me bleed.

Home is simple pleasures and the absence of ever-present dread.

 

Home is where we go at the end of the day to bury all the parts of ourselves we don’t like.

All the lonely and withering parts of ourselves that are too heavy to carry are boxed up and buried at home.

It’s the realisation that I love the feeling of warmth but not being warm.

Home is where the wretched of the earth find themselves wanted.

 

Home is where you can hear the beating thump of the drums of liberation.

Liberation from being perceived, liberation from expectations, and liberation from yourself.

Even the moon needs liberation sometimes.

Hiding her face behind the sun, maybe the shadows are her home.

 

So where is this home of mine? Where do I rest my withered shoes at the end of the journey?

Maybe there is nowhere to call home, the Hermit walks alone after all.