Ludicrous, that’s the term for the question ‘where is home?’ Clichés are in abundance as retards frolic in the font. The printer’s devil is lurking somewhere between the syntax and grammar. Loneliness is good. It’s fulfilling and comforting. No glitches. No excuses, just a line of thought that runs linear to everything. A self imposed purgatory, an interval before the beginning of new life: Sparkling, smell of fresh fabric, new car interiors, sound of rustling plastic covers being removed from a sofa… sanitizing the senses.
Belief in a fresh beginning and new things all coming together to create a charade that will last for a while till ennui takes hold and all is abandoned.
Anton plays the guitar, the motley crowd of onlookers are speaking, scratching and drinking the warm beer, it’s nearing midnight as the thump carries down the road and reverberates in the rubbish heap.
Sting stings with every breath, the speakers hum and hiss. She moves crossing her legs for the rhythm has got to her, she looks around embarrassed. Food remains half devoured, cold and lifeless on the plate as her puffy fingers drum the discoloured napkin.
The Word is out tonight cruising and cursing the dregs of humanity that are flaying their emotions to keep above the waterline of life.
Questions rise medusa like from the crumbs of a baguette…a remnant nestles between nicotine stained teeth.
Where is home? The obvious is prosaic…family, children, relatives, houses, gardens and memories of births, deaths and inoculations. A string of events, places and things completing a picture of a place most call home.
Why the longing to belong to a person, place or thing? Why does home have to be fixed in the present continuous? Why can’t it remain a figment of the imagination: A hope that never materializes but continues to urge one on towards the ever shifting horizon?
Isn’t it frightening that everyone needs a home, a stationary object around which emotive aspects of existence play hide and seek.
Some may say home is where the hearth is or home is where one feels one belongs. But then why do we need to belong? Is it because there is an inbuilt homing device within us all that acts like a magnet constantly drawing us back to one thought process that cradles our hopes, joys and failures and emits a never ending stream of consciousness that connives with reality to lull us into sheep?
Home is probably an expression invented to give us universal wanderers an anchor that stabilizes our menial mentality for it perpetuates a notion upon which we build our lives, cities and our perceived love of the world.
Is it possible that we have missed the whole point of existence with our clinging to a reality that is constantly changing?
Could it be that home is really the human body each one of us lives in and not another person, place or thing?