There are times when everything screams, “Not Home,” to me, like each wall is giving me the cold shoulder or just plain apathy.  It is, most probably so, the other way around.  I seek and find a sense of home in the company of my family, I zoom in on their stories and try to fully engage myself.

How long can one talk about the search for home?  More urgently, how long can one sustain the search for home before losing the very essence of the search?  Is the core of it all constant and indestructible, or do years bend and transform it into something else entirely?

I am moving yet again.  Always in transit, never an old bedside table whose edges I know so well, like the back of my hand.  At least none yet for now, or the next month.

And the fact that there is now a pending end to all this transience makes the wandering time remaining very palpable to the bones.  Isn’t that how most things are, things are toughest when you’re right on the cusp of attaining success or freedom, or home, whatever it is your heart most desires.

I am thankful for this experience - what it is and how I am going through it: physically on my own, not knowing where I’m sleeping a couple of nights from now, slowly, day by day moving everything I own to my brother’s garage to pick the things I want to keep with me, to sort out the life I’ve had so far.

‘Tis all bittersweet.