The fingers write though the heart is heavy. I am reminded of what I have sacrificed and those that I left behind. I have lost myself in the illusions that I helped create. They believe I am happy because they would have been happy. I believe I am content because they believe I am happy. Belonging and being are the basis of the heart's definition of home. Without that to hold onto, it beats for no purpose; a soundless rhythm echoing in a deaf space.
I have had to change my definition of belonging. I can no longer point to a single location or to a people. Even nomadic tribes have patterns. They have a set route that they follow as the seasons change and pass by the same stream at the same time each year. I tried to believe what we tell ourselves; that the world is one village now and that to belong to one people is to belong to all. However, the awareness of my limits proves the falsehood of this belief. In 30 days I must leave. I will no longer belong.
In defence of my roots and defiance of popular logic, I hold onto my little village. I refuse to claim another as my home. There have been moments when returning home hurt more than the departure journey. My own blood rejected my arrival. My own tongue spat on my face. I cannot shake that nagging voice; the fact that I must explain my accent every where and every time.
Perhaps I should be content in knowing that, though I belong to no one, at least I belong to you. But on cold dreary nights, when sounds of others' laughter emphasise one's own emptiness, one wonders what it is what we are all chasing after.
This is powerful...
ReplyDeleteI feel you. It is strange how empty this all is! Also there's the question of where is home? Is it fixed or is it fluid? Is it a physical place anymore? Does it need to be? Why is that so important to me??
ReplyDeleteTruthfully, for me, now my home is with my husband. I can meet him in the city or wherever and I tell him: Welcome home:-)(cheesy I know! )
Not cheesy at all...
DeleteI might end up with gchat as my home!!