What is “home”? I’ve always struggled with the concept. In denotation, it is stated that home is a place of permanent residence. According to poet Robert Frost, “Home is the place that, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” But what of those of us that do not have the luxury of this common certainty? It’s certainly not a place, no, this I cannot believe, lest I be rendered homeless, for never have I visited a place that fit this definition of home.

This I refuse to accept. But… what’s wrong with not having a home? To be a nomad, a free spirit, unchained… Perhaps a home is a prison of sorts, and yet my desire for a home I do not wish to tame. I even built a treehouse in my mind, holding me over until I find what it means to be home. O’er the hills I wander, searching for this feeling.

On my travels I encountered a suit. It was a most spectacular suit, with hedonistic thread and cloth woven from humanity. It reflected beams of nostalgia. I was mesmerized. I followed the suit for some time, making note of where it went, how it waved in the breeze. But we always ended up in what appeared to be the same place. After some time, I began to notice a man in it. He wore an empty smile… was he wearing the suit or was it wearing him? 


Days became weeks, weeks became months, and I forgot what it was like to walk without it. “Could this be my home?” I thought. “I’ve been walking with it and it will never leave my side.” So I invited the suit to my treehouse, all but forgetting that the man would come with it. 

I haven’t even told you what he whispered in my ear, smiling all the same. I still hear it. I desperately seek to forget. 

It’s certainly not a person, no, this I cannot believe, lest I be rendered powerless… side by side with a spectacular suit that I cannot and will not wear. This I refuse to accept. 

Illusion, delusion, a slave to my desire. When will I free myself of the chains of the concept of home?


Midnight Star

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