Definitions of Home: Part 4, “A Train”

Home isn’t a place or a person.
Home is an attitude.
Lying on the soft tiny bed in this train,
I realize that I’m not rushing to go anywhere.
I have what I need right here,
And it isn’t much better anywhere else.
I have peace of mind, comfort, and I have music if i need it.
Sure my relatives miss me sometimes and there are people who want to see me.
There are things for me to do somewhere.
But that’s all in the past and future.
Not on this train.
Here I am with myself,
And as long as I am with myself anywhere,
Anywhere can be home.
Any discomfort and uncertainty can be an adventure.
I don’t have to be afraid, as here I am just as safe and loved as anywhere else.
The world hasn’t stop spinning,
I am very much grinning.
I am on the train.
I am also home.

“Definitions of Home: Part 2, Decorations”

I am finally home.
So what if words can’t capture
My candle dancing,
The flutter of eyelids,
The bear paw of perfectly warm tea.
Even in the moment of fading friendships,
Of shattered world views,
Of being lost and often insecure,
This room feels like hope.
More than four walls of white paint,
It is the mere possession of it
That indicates a life so far well spent.
The little touches of art,
The colors, the plants,
The notes that I have saved,
They are the makers of a “me.”
And although I deny
The existence of a static personality,
Or well defined traits,
There is something extremely comforting
In looking at something
And being able to point to it and say –
That’s me!

And perhaps even if this is not all of me,
It is alright because
just like words are not full feelings,
So are these objects and this room,
Puzzle pieces of a life in progress
Of a creature whose uniqueness is written in these fine details.
Home is the place where you can read about yourself.
I’m made these walls mine,
Now they’re here to remind me of who I am,
And when in doubt, to find myself again.

“Definitions of Home: Part 1”

There’s a frightening coldness to a new city,
Even under shelter and comfort,
You feel closer to the homeless
Than to the ones rushing happily home.
After all, money is the only separation
And material things can be taken away.
These well-built white walls won’t hug you
If it all gets taken away.
Perhaps that’s the source of the coldness
Whether here or gone
Your presence is of no importance
Your disappearance is hidden
With a simple bird’s song.
These bright city lights keep shining
The lives of people keep on winding,
And no one notices you going along.
They say home is where someone notices you’re gone.

I’ve tried to define home as a place in myself
And now I’ve noticed I’m gone.
I’m a bundle of fears,
Of changes and tears
Of burned bridges,
Of stressful falling of hair on the floor,
Of hasty decisions on lovers,
Of books which lose sense when they enter my head.
Where have I gone?
Though was I ever really home?

“Home”

I am reaching out for something to hold on to
As the map in the corner,
The once prized symbol of hope,
Makes drops in my eyes.

I am once again alone,
Walking away with seemingly nothing,
Hoping the rest of the world,
Those people I don’t know,
Won’t crush me and send me running home,
Where I’m not meant to be.

But how I want a home so badly.
Anything to end the pain of always going on and never stopping.
But I know I wasn’t meant to have such comfort.
Being ordinary never was my own.