In life, a person will come and go from many homes. We may leave a house, a town, a room, but that does not mean those places leave us. Once entered, we never entirely depart the homes we make for ourselves in the world. They follow us, like shadows, until we come upon them again, waiting for us in the mist. We need a home in the psychological sense as much as we need one in the physical: to compensate for a vulnerability. We need a refuge to shore up our states of mind, because so much of the world is opposed to our allegiances. We need our rooms to align us to desirable versions of ourselves and to keep alive the important, evanescent sides of us.
Sometimes you sit and wonder ‘ Was it the right decision ‘ and then you can’t explain your mind whether it was one or not. Living in a different country doesn’t mean you are far away from home but you are here to make something better for yourself. That’s all about life and which people don’t understand ‘The real world is the one within the walls of homes; the outside world, of careers and politics and money and fame, that was the fake world, where nothing lasted, and things were real only to the extent they harmed or helped people inside their homes’. So its just a boulevard of your dreams that you are carrying and once the goal is achieved you return where you belong to. So it’s never about being homesick or being far away from home. It’s just about a step you make towards your goal which makes the distance short for home.
We comfort ourselves by reliving memories of protection. Something closed must retain our memories, while leaving them their original value as images. Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those of home and, by recalling these memories, we add to our store of dreams; we are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.
“Home is where the heart is.”