No Sweet Home

The idea of home has been racking my brain since this assignment snuck up on me. I have long ago accepted that home as a physical place does not pertain to my life. Instead it seems to be something more mobile. I have felt at home in so many places that I have begun to think of it more as an abstract thing, or at least something that pertains only to me. My poetic depiction of homes takes place on a train platform and the people who make it home are strangers. These are all persisting ideas that I have carried with me for years now. When asked to write about them I was struck with the ease at which I was able to. I was once told never to write about emtional things for at least six months, before that they are too real for words. This rang true for me in this instence. I have often tried to write about my sense of home, only to find that all I was able to produce were words bound by emotion, unable to escape the dark corners of my mind to see the light of the page. As I have matured and the idea has become more trivial and almost exciting and now the writing is easier.