Homesick

Like a sailor piercing through the night without a shiny beacon or like a water drenched wanderer in the rain seeking for shelter, I hit the streets without any direction. The signs indistinguishable. Welcome to Question-Mark-Avenue … again. Trees on both sides mimicking some sort of path I’m not able to see. A group of people pass me on the sidewalk. I recognize the noise pattern of their chattering but I fail to understand its meaning. It’s making as much sense to me as the frenetic croak of  a lone crow feasting on some nuts crushed by a passing car. Question mark question mark X X X.

What if the place I desperately try to reach doesn’t exist? What if it’s not even a place? Sometimes it seems like a foundation with a bunch of walls and a roof is not the only thing we can call home. Sometimes it’s a special person. One very dear to you whose presence gives you so much more than a place ever could. 

I return to my foundation with a bunch of walls and a roof. I hope that your beacon shines bright to whatever sailor out there needs a way home.