"Where is home?"
That particular question played around in my head as I strolled across my living room. It kept on coming again and again and again, like a stubborn cockroach that just would not die...
I ignored it as I walked, or more accurately, I tried to ignore it. But as I approached the window overlooking the street.. for a moment, I didn't have to. The calming effect of the chocolatey brown blinds on the window hit me, distracting my train of thoughts but for a couple of seconds.. Then once again the question repeated itself, as clear as the sound of rain now pattering on the streets outside...
"Author, where is home..?"
Unconsciously, I closed my eyes.. and for the thousand and first time since I left my birth place, I let the path come to me once again.."
Image by Shantanu Kashyap from Pixabay
There was a lamp on the old wooden table, standing alone in the corner of the room. Its embers burning steady.. The flame sent its shadow dancing around the room, too low to clearly pick a face out if one needed to, yet burning bright enough to light up the small room...
Right beside the lamp a worn out book was opened, its pages ragged, filled with words, almost begging for no more but to be simply left alone.
Across the room on the other side, a young boy in his early teens lay sprawled out on the floor, his legs raised to the wall. He was naked but for a piece of loose fabric hanging around his waist.. Laying there, he looked like an ancient piece of art, waiting around for her highest bidder.
And so would he remain, he wouldn't move, nor would he drink, nor eat... until those ideas for which he waited hit him, and at times that took hours on end..
But when they did, they did... and the pages of the book suffered...
I hovered above silently, as I watched the scene of my birth place... There were I called home for the first 19 years of my life, and as always, I felt the nostalgia course through my very core...
I was drawn to this place, this despicable yet symbolic place. I loved the idea of here, and yet I hated it. I wanted to relive the moments, but deep down, I despaired to really live in it...
And every single time, when the desire fought the despair... It ended in one confused, conflicted, and curious question...
"Where is home?"
That particular question played around in my head as I stood across my living room. It kept on coming again and again and again, like a stubborn cockroach that just would not die...
I ignored it as I waited, or more accurately, I tried to ignore it. But as I stared through the window overlooking the street.. for a moment, I didn't have to. The calming effect of the sudden burst of wind hit me, distracting my train of thoughts but for a couple of seconds.. Then once again the question repeated itself, as clear as the sight of dawn now colouring the street outside...
"Author, where is home..?"
Unconsciously, I closed my eyes.. and for the thousand and second time since I left my birth place, I let the path come to me once again.."
THE END
#SladenSpeaks
#IfWordsWereNudes
I had a feeling of melancholy when I first read this prompt, and that feeling stayed with me for hours, till I decided I had to satisfy its craving.
I hope you enjoy reading this one as much as I did writing it...
Cheers!
