Homeless at Heart (part 1)

I wrote this piece 11 years ago when I was a university student in Cardiff.  I unearthed it recently or rather a good university friend of mine found it and had sent it to me via email.  I don’t really recall writing it, but I know I wrote a lot back then.  I see myself in it. I was freer with poetic license than I am now…

Missing hurts.  As I look outside my student room window.  I see nothing but the big sign of a “3rd Fire Assembly point”.  Darkness comes in ever so soon these days, its winter, and its cold. Walking outside is when peace fills the inner depths of my soul. As I breathe in and out, the warm air is seen clearly through the crisp air, that stings at your cheeks, but mostly the peak of the nose, where it turns red as the breeze cunningly blows the cold elegant air directly at you.  The wind sweeps the leaves up and he makes them dance in the air with festive joys or are those of lonely leaves trying to find their place?  Just like I am searching, searching where is home? Oh where? Home has never really existed for me.  As students like me: “So where is home for you?”  And I close my eyes, and picture home.  But what is true home?  What is it?  Where is it?  Its not like I am homeless.  I have a home.  But I am homeless at heart.  Like the homeless who find no warmth in the day or night, when days grow cold, and dark, and when the streets become ice and when the ice melts and the sun appears and the days grow longer.  I search between the trees, and the flowers of where home is.  The sense of home is where family is. This is how international insecure students like me view the world.  Never knowing what the answer is to “So where is home for you?”  The mind drifts off to the inner world of the student room.  Its cosy, homely but not where the caring and inner circle of family life is.  The room is a place to escape from student life.  Its an escape, its a comforter, in a  sense a home, a home that doesn’t speak, but shows and lives all your fears and worries…

My world turns dark, darker by the minute as my safety is destroyed.  The safety destroyed by the fear of him chasing you, chasing you into the dark alleys of your mind.  The black is all around, suffocating the thoughts of festive feasts.  And the haunting begins once again.  The clenching stomach like a fist.  A clench of fear, a fear of the past that will run with you into the present and future. Run, and hold you back, hold your hand as if you’re a small girl lost in a thick forest of trees.  Dusk is all around, it never turns to daylight, as the mind is overshadowed with the fear, and the anger of the bitter past.  The bitter past is a storm that abides…  And no inner peace comes… just the fear… the intense fear of what could happen into the distant future.  As time ticks slowly, the steady beat of rain, against the window sill.  A normal steady beat, you hear day in day out, as the fine rain beats softly, gently against the window sill, and time slowly evaporates and mingles in with the air.

If not knowing where home is, then why miss?  Missing is a natural feeling, overcomes anyone from afar or from up close.  Missing is a powerful emotion.  As I look up around my room, and peer closely at the photos, memories seem to weave in and out, like the weaving of carpets, the weaving of scarves, the knitting of sweaters, and the ticking behind a computer.  It brings in feelings of longing, a distant feeling of loss, of wanting to be there, wanting to join in the family fun.  I am homeless at heart, but home when the voices of the children surround me.  A warm feeling comes over my figure, a feeling that wraps me up tight like a blanket at night, wrapping and reminding me, that child naivety will always make me laugh, and cry with the purest joy of all. Walking into the foul smelling bathroom, I am engulfed with a homesickness!  But why a homesickness, when a home isn’t a home, knowing that eventually time spent in a house will be over, and into a new house.  Home, oh home is where family is.  It doesn’t matter if you’re across the ocean from where your origins are from. What matters, is the warmth of your family.  What matters is the warmth of the fireplace. What matters, is the love, and the smell of warm food. And the cosiness of a bathroom, not a foul smelling bathroom, making you want to run, run like the wind.

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