Dearest Seeker, 

A place called home has walls thick and painted white, it’s where no stranger hears any pleas. A place called home reverberates my weeping up to the skies, where gods hear it just as a shiver skitters up their spines, becoming desperate to free me as their heart clenches alongside mine.

A place called home is a witness to hundreds of my agonies, buckets of frustrations, joy with fluttering sensations, and sadness of misunderstandings. A place called home lacks strict regimes, punishing resentment at a missed crinkled crease, it remains unexpectant of another state, unlike another human being.

A place called home stores songs borne of a voice alone. A place called home has a library of music that calls to the deeper pit where hidden are the lores, where sunsets and aromatic teas bring the day to a close, murmuring of the serenity’s visitation, and the tensions transiting that were restored.

A place called home is a partner in all my dances performed in front of a lone mirror away from the watchful eyes through the windows. A place called home admires the whimsy in my footsteps thudding across the roof of the one below; it bows and claps when the performance comes to a cinematic close.

A place called home chats itself, freely and frivolously. A place called home has a voice soft, serious, yet akin to melody, it whispers to me its concerns, silences in the rush, debates its arguments tenderly. It’s gentle and kind, it speaks in loving endearments and never shouts hastily.

A place called home at the sight of dust creates no guilt, the unwashed floor, the clutter in bins doesn’t make it wilt. A place called home cares more for its mate than for the liabilities in silence one might miss. It’s patient, and with understanding it sees, holds the curtains close when with nature one is amiss.

A place called home invites my favoured things, beings, and plays to stay. A place called home makes rest as light as the soot of flames; it smells of cozy blankets, food cooked at night left uneaten, laundry waiting to be folded, and plants accidentally overwatered again.

A place called home nurtures the mood, the whims of human nature moving rhythmically like cycles of the moon. A place called home has lights dimmed, candles with soothing fragrance lit, warm water with tasteful oils infused; it’s immune to the disturbing presence of cold with a fireplace alive with wood.

A place called home makes me eager to reach it with my hands, to create it from nothing but a desolate land. A place called home calls my name like a long-lost friend. It holds me in distrustful weathers, in hurricanes and rainy fevers, it gives me warmth similar to the dream of a lover that after waking becomes evident.

A place called home gives solace to a recluse departed from noise for a silent living, it only allows for nature’s voice to talk with the soul within. A place called home also sees me as its home, its occupant but a family in the making, its companion as I pass my lifetime sharing the same air to breathe in.

A place called home is close to fetch, perhaps even given at birth, and lasts untroubled till date. A place that I call home is far and for the fortunate, for the bold and mostly for the one easily berated, for the one dissonant searching for where belonging is a ceaseless state, who sighs in relief, grateful to the gods for having written it in their fate.

Seek, dearest.