homesick

I have never thought about myself as a nomad, but here I was moving from one area to another, never really settling down, never really getting comfortable. It often seemed like being on the road wasn’t my choice — it was just the way the life sorted itself out and I didn’t have much to say in that case, so I quietly accepted my fate as a wanderer. After some time, I got used to the tiredness of walking. I got used to carrying a luggage that seemed to get heavier with each day. I got used to bruises covering my legs and the dryness of my lips longing for fresh water.

Now and again, I would come across a place that would offer a quietness of a starless night and a relief for my drained body. I was allowed to rest for a bit, but never been granted a long-term stay. Sooner or later I was on my way again, not exactly sure which direction to choose.

As I was travelling, I was curiously peeking through the windows, trying to get at least a glimpse of the interiors. Most of the times, I was unable to see through the curtains, so the homes had to be judged at the first glance. I admired them, wondering how it would feel if I was the one waking up in one of their rooms, my body covered with satin sheets, tickled by the rays of the sun. With closed eyes I ran my fingers on the wooden verandas and imagined being let in. I created visions of the staircases and studies, and enormous mahogany beds.

***

I have seen some beautiful places on my journeys. They resembled castles, majestically standing on top of the hills, proudly presenting their white porches and corinthian columns; their vast gardens filled with blooming flowers and fountains with whispering waters. Some felt almost like home, welcoming and warm, calling my name and softly promising the sweetness of comfort.

A mirage.

The doors opened before me and I heard the words of invitation. Homes, as magnificent as they seemed from outside, turned out to be equivalently ugly after stepping through the doors. The insides were rotten. The mould was eating every corner, covering the walls in dark meaningless patterns, consuming the paint that maybe back in the day had a bright shade. The wind was forcing itself in through the leaky windows, filling the empty space with lamentable wails, accompanied by the howls of haunted ghosts imprisoned in the sad desolation.

I did not stay long in those places. As alluring as they have been, they became darker with each day of the tenancy, slowly wrapping their arms around me, consuming and absorbing, making me a part of their decaying foundations. I had to walk away while I still could.

Leaving was never my strength but it is another thing you learn with time.

Few times I took the risk of trying to fix what was broken. I cleaned the dust and planted new flowers, watering them every day to make sure they would grow. I wiped the mirrors and glued back some of their pieces, I sewed the curtains and set the table for the next meal that was not meant to happen.

I was quickly thrown out, my belongings burnt and disposed, the memory of my person buried deep down in the gloomiest corner of the garden.

I was on the road again.

I came across humble homes that welcomed me with a warm meal and a place to sleep. They had let me stay for as long as I wanted, even asking to settle down and become part of the neighbourhood. I could not exactly say why, but nothing in those places reminded me of my home. Some invisible part was missing and no matter how long I stayed, a day or two, a month or a year, it was nowhere to be found. Or maybe I just did not know what to look for?

***

I lost my home the moment you walked away.

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Previously published on my personal Medium account