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Two fingers squeeze the filter of a cigarette. Smoke swirls up and dissipates quickly in a stray midnight breeze.
An uncertain gaze, peering out at the vista of darkness beyond the porch.
This blue-eyed animal blows a puff of smoke, and considers home.
Buried in a bundle of nerves and meat, there is a memory of a mother. Playing in the backyard, and laughing with her. She was home. Is she home, now?
An attachment to someone that loves him. They share thoughts, and compassion. Sleeping together, their bodies exchange warmth. Each day is an experience that brings peace. Is that home?
Alone in the dark. He sits in front of a glowing screen. He takes a thing that alters his brain. Ears covered with headphones, music plays. Floating in the the recesses of his unconscious mind, he wonders: is this home?
Cheering and howling with company labelled as friends. Each of these creatures have walked a path; the path is similar for all, but the minutest details create the story. He shares his life with them. Is that home?
Is it memories, is it his own mind, is it the people around him? Is it the places he’s stayed, the roads he’s walked? What makes him, him? Is it what the people say he is? Is it what he says he is? Is there an otherworldly, cosmic power to define him? Is it the shoes he wears, the air he breathes, or the people he gifts pleasant moments? Is it all these things, together? Who can see the whole picture? He knows he cannot. A startled bird sees him as a threat, a man wearing a different uniform sees him as an enemy, a woman who has traced the lines of his palm with her finger sees him as the world.
Home, it appears, is simply existence. Welcome home; get comfortable.
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