As I grew up I felt less and less at home in the house as I grew up. Even if it was inherited, I would still feel I don’t belong here. After decades of being in this house and the neighbourhood, it’s familiar but it’s not what I would call “home”.
Something aches inside me to want a place I can my own. A place I can call own, a place I belong. There is just a place I want to be; I don’t know where, whether it’s metaphysical or realistic but it’s there gnawing inside and I want to find it. This is what salmon feel when they swim upstream, you just know you have to go but you don’t know where. Even if it kills me, I want to know where this place is and if it’s even there.
I’ve laid in fields with fields above. In the empty void, in the silence, there has been that urge; the urge to go home or find it. Even when I’m the place I sleep and work, the calling is way too strong to ignore.
What exactly am I looking for, what is this urge? Will I even find it?