Sunday, 27 October 2013


The majority of us are raised in one country, going to school on the same route for 4 years, taking the same path back home, and routinely doing certain things day in and day out. As we approach our senior year in highschool and our hearts start pounding at the idea of leaving home for the big, bright world where opportunities blossom ripe, we forget just how much we're going to miss the familiarity of home.

As I sit here, on this bed which is noticeably smaller than mine, lofted up God knows how many centimeters from the floor and looking out of my window into the darkness, I realize that I forgot to 'take in' home. I forgot to walk around my house aimlessly for hours on end and just absorb the feeling of the sun seeping through the curtains into the TV room, or the way the wind blew through the hole in the kitchen window. I forgot to go down to the dusty lounge; he one that was reserved for special events and for visits from the grown ups. The one that I snuck into as a young girl, breaking the rules for the thrill of an adventure. I forgot to stand under the makeshift sunroof that ran through it. I forgot to stand there and just allow the sun's strong beams to flow in and lick my skin the way the African sun does. I forgot to do a running dive bomb into my pool like we did when I was younger; when I was younger and had my friends over for sleepovers and swimming in the summer. As I carried my suitcase out of my room on that last day, I forgot to take one last look at home and say goodbye. I forgot to make a memory of home through the eyes of my 18 year old self. I forgot that when I get to see home again, I won't be myself any longer, and home won't be what it used to be... I forgot just how important those last few moments were.

Thinking about home hurts. It doesn't hurt because someone hurt me. It hurts because everything that convinced me that my life had no value on this earth lurks within the constraints of those walls. It hurts because I see myself losing my consciousness over that bathroom sink. It hurts because I can hear myself screaming into a pillow trying to muffle the sound of my hurt. It hurts because it echoes the vibrations that were sent through the earth as my heart was so carelessly ripped out of my chest by the other half of my soul. It hurts because people left there. They left there and left me in there. They left me in the mess that they would make and that I'd be drowned in. Home hurts because it took away from me. It took away components of my being that I needed. Home hurts because it took away my happy and gave it to me in doses so small and so dragged apart by time that it seemed like it was merely trying to keep me on the cusp of life rather than give it to me.

Being away from home hurts, even though home hurts. Despite the immense and constant pain that lurked in my shadow there, home is also the place I found love, it is the place that raised me, it is the place my bestfriend resides. It is the place that echoes me....

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