What is home?
Is it the familiar faces, which lie at every corner?
Is it the things we have grown accustomed to?
Or rather, it is the familiar abode. Long, long ago, how the very air becomes familiar. Soft gales, sweet winds that a stranger would protest and detest.
However we know our homes, and these soft tendrils, are rather the fingers of an acquaintance, tender fingers on our cheeks. The winds we have known and come to recognize, as we whisper, “This is my home.” As these winds whisper back: “You are my guest, once again.”
And the silence, neither absolute or unique, becomes our own. Our homes own silence, different from any else, so garnished by birds, or streams, or by the city dins.
This the euphoria within it, the memories, which stem from the smell of wind, and the sound of silence, the one we could only recognize here, where we belong. Nary another place in the dark which could understand.
Yet here we lie, on the cusp of the advent. Our leave. The final curtain to our old abode. And what could separate us? And what could deny us, this our nostalgia, which we feel every day?
The reason can only be, that we do not belong. Our home is no longer the caring of a mother, but rather the sting of the whip of a slaver, and we have become attached to the doldrums, to the same old thing.
Home has become banality, has become nothing but beleaguering of old memories.
How could we not wish to leave, and head into the darkness?
Darkness is the uncertainty, the unknown, the inexperience, and the questions that have still not been answered. Umbral mysteries, and all the places we do not call home.
How can we not find peace within the shadows, how we have desired what’s new, and here we have found it.
And while some will fear the dark, and others will not dare abandon their cradle, we know well, catharsis of the obscure.
How cathartic it is to be lost, to not know, to be unaware. To speak in mysteries.
And a place in the dark where we had not belonged shall be our new home. A place where winds whispers unanswered questions and silence is absolute and undiluted.
Deep within shadows of what we have not seen, and what we hope to hear.
Strangers with hope and fear.
– Carlos Sevilla