Home

lately i've been thinking of home quite a bit more, and what that all means, especially now being away from it for an extended period of time beyond the couple of months or weeks that was sophomore and junior year. i wrote a simple poem that gets to the heart of what i really can't express more gracefully:

i suppose it's sad
to leave home for the last time
to trippingly spin your way out the door
knowing subtly underneath
the children's blanket warmth
of crispy golden-fried leaves
your room will be
painted
when again you return.

i suppose my life is on a track to finding a new home, and not for the first time, i feel homeless amongst the masses of hundreds and thousands. Home is home, but not in the same way. it's home in the way the evergreen scent of trees and dead-snow silence is christmas. and i suppose christmas, being a time to be home, brings these thoughts out. under the guise of something more profound, i think i'm simply ready for a break from the city, from people, and i'm ready to be taken care of for a bit.

i think what the poem really means is that i'm simply longing for a nurturing hand, but now, getting older, means that there are new layers, new coats of paint, to the relationship with family, and to the relationship with myself. discovering these new layers brings me to a new stage of self-realization, but also a sadness at the loss of the downy days of childhood, when a soft bed of leaves was enough for countless afternoons of fun. it still would be, but i have no time. and Time, such a precious commodity, moves unforgivingly forward. i always feel as though i'm catching up, always a little bit behind Time, because i hold on. i really don't know if this is a bad thing or not. i really don't know if chinese medicine is right, and my colitis is somehow part of that. but that's another day.

this poem reveals a side to me i don't share with people, because sadness and regret are hard to bring up in conversation without offending. but i am haunted by my childhood; by trees, lakes, rivers, a snowy whiteness, the mountains, and through it all, my father's hands on a fishing pole, quietly dipping into the molten-gold water at dawn. the moments of peace are few, and i weep gently, from the depth of my body, for all.