Home

It was that day. Since then, life's made even less sense than it already made; that feeling that I don't belong, it's only grown larger and broader so that there's no difference anymore between who I am, and who I live as. It was that day that changed everything, that causes me even more to pine for a home, ungraspable, undefined, somewhere beyond reality and the knowledge that the world around me lives and breathes and influences every thought and perception.

It was that day.
That day, when I faced the possibility, the speculative certainty, of my own death.

And I made my peace with it.

What is there left to fear, when you know all life ends in death and that you feel neither scared nor regretful? How is one to fear the prospect of eviction and hunger, the loss of all and everything, when life itself seems but a passing dream with no real meaning?

Well, I do fear the way in which I'll die. I also fear the waste of my life, of what precious time remains before me. I fear fear itself, for it is fear that cripples one's imagination and motivation; I fear that I'll remain in this state of deep lack of passion, that I will never care about my projects and my dreams as once I did with already such difficulty. What is there to care about when you know all is finite, that one day this life will end, and the cares of the modern world (which I already feel so little for) will stay behind?

And I feel so alone. Alone, in a mindset; alone, in my appreciation of death, which gives its meaning to life. Because all is finite; here one day, gone the next, and in the meantime you have made a world of difference in the little worlds revolving in your neighbourhood – for better or worse. I do not feel at home in this life. Yet, that is the reason I am here. And live. And breathe. And write, because it is the only place in the world where I do feel at home: in the words, in the letters that appear upon my screen one key at a time, in the flow of ideas and the truths of the heart that they uncover with every passing syllable.

Upon the blank page I feel alive; it is where I build a home of letters and dots. It is where I nest in tangled blankets of ideas, where I stare at blank walls covered in inky lines and swirls and realize my thoughts are as one with the small world I live in.

And as I close the door to my mind, I wonder: why do I always forget the address to this place?