What is a Home?
What is a home?
What comes to your mind when you think of home, the word?
Now that you’re thinking, keep thinking until your mind stops wandering and you know okay this is my home.
Let the gears of your mind grind. Do not just stop at the main gate of your house and stare at it. Enter it and find what’s a home for you.
Let your mind unfold, go into the subtle sense of home.
What is it?
The entire home? Or the people?
If it is the entire home, where do you go when you want to be alone?
If it is the people, to whom do you talk when you’re broken-hearted?
To me, my home is in my bedroom. Not the entire room but the top right corner of my bed. Yes, a corner, not the entire right side of the bed, because when I feel like being alone I don’t lie in bed with my legs straight. Instead, I lie there with my legs curled up to my stomach. Under the blanket that will get warmer with time.
Because only there I feel safe.
Safe from whom?
The people who are living with me are my family. Even with them, I don’t feel safe?
Well, it’s not about family.
It’s about the sensitivity of the situation. When you want to be alone or broken-hearted. You have so many broken pieces inside your heart or mind. You need some time alone to pick them up and rebuild what’s broken.
These pieces are extremely delicate, a slight slip of the hand and can cause massive irreversible damage.
So, in times like this, you’re not being narcissistic, you’re just being careful, in your own home, where you’re safe, and precise about your actions.
What makes this space special for me?
You know, silence in the day feels different than silence at night. The silence at night is calmer and steady than its counterpart.
I believe it happens because there’s chaos created by people’s thoughts as well. And nights are usually deprived of this chaos. Therefore, there’s something addictive about late nights for people like me.
I feel this calmness in my home, there are no questions, no expectations, no doubts, no nothing, it’s just me and my mess. It’s a halt in a long and tiresome journey. It’s not a demand, it’s a necessity.
This home has warmth, it’s soothing for my cold chest, toes, and fingers. This warmth heals my dried throat. The pillow gently holds my spinning head. And I clench the blanket with my finger so tight as if I’m closing the door shut from the world.
The irony is, I feel an insane sense of freedom in the world’s smallest space.
When the blanket is warm and cozy and tears have begun to dry the healing begins. No charge, no batteries, no fuel, nothing in return, this home starts healing me.
With a heart so delicate, I can only trust my home. Not the family I was born in, but the home I chose.
We build such big mansions, just to find our tiny home in them.
Now, imagine feeling the same around a person.
