to come home is to arrive again in the place that we started from,
the place that we have always known, have always felt, to be true.
the streets we walk today may be more lawless, the signs non-existent,
but our navigation steadily, and always, brings us back to centre.
to remember where we come from is not to picture a country,
or a landscape, or a house. All these are fleeting,
as the wanderer understands with a longing heart,
and how loneliness does not correlate with the distance of memories.
because home is where the heart is, as the old saying goes,
for the only place that is truly familiar,
is the body, mind and spirit that temple our sweet soul,
our essence that, at its own heart, is free and never lonely,
for it is wild, yet never lost. it welcomes the world to its front door,
in harmonious dance, a true traveler,
only experiencing the loneliness of separation and differentiation,
when we ourselves wander away from it, forgetting who we are,
running away from home.