Home is within and without.
It is not a place, a person or a tangible feeling.
It is the calm that presents itself during the storm.
Home, a word feared as much as it is revered.
I refuse to find my home in you, in that place with those people.
For am I truly home, unless I feel it within myself?
Home, I turn within to find it.
It is all the dark spaces within me.
It is all the spaces where the sun touches me.
It is where I see me, be me, truly me.
Home, a place of sanctuary where I can remove the mask.
A place where I no longer have to pretend to be ok.
Home, a place that holds me close and whispers,
“You are safe now”.
Home is not a tangible person or place.
Home is me.
When I am with me, I am home.
Even amongst a hundred strangers,
If I have me, I am home.
About the Creator
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The Gatekeeper
“Its time Adrianna”, I open my eyes holding a hand up to block the harsh glare of the Sun. As I show a finger to the Sun, it twinkles. It laughs at me and my predicament. A prisoner in her own choice of prison. Every soul who walks through this meadow knows my name, but none will remember it once they leave. I take a moment to appreciate the meadow around me, filled with beds of vibrant yellow marigold flowers. “Adrianna, it’s time. Please”. The owner of the melodious voice, pulls my attention back to him. The man’s name is Carlos, tilting my head I look at him curiously. He should not be here, it is not his time yet, I can feel it. He is too alive, untouched by the winds of death. His hazel eyes shine against the sun light, he seems so at ease. So at… home. His muscular arms twitch in anticipation and fear as I close the distance between us. “Carlos, I would say it’s nice to see you. But since you interrupted my nap…”. The tremble in his voice, the wriggling of his fingers. He is more than twice my size, he could easily overpower me in the physical sense, all are equal in this meadow. Yet he fears me, trembling like a child would when in trouble, how odd. “I am… I am sorry Adrianna. But, I … its time”. “You must really be desperate, if you are willing to offer me anything”. I take his trembling hands into mine. My small hands fitting in perfectly with his. I intertwine our hands and lead us to the edge of the meadow. It is not his time yet, I know it. But who am I to stop him if he wishes to walk the path.
By Resham Mehta4 years ago in Fiction
Smart phones, Humans and Aliens.
WARNING. I will be tapping into one of your favorite creative tensions: The absurdity of humans worshipping their glowing rectangles as if they were tiny oracles. There’s something deliciously poetic about that contradiction, and it lends itself beautifully to an instructive proviso.
By Novel Allen6 days ago in Poets
The Path to Salvation
The late autumn evening air filled the monk's lungs, but it wasn't the season that chilled his bones. The heavy-handed presence of evil he had sensed upon entering the woods surrounding this mountain village had not bothered to conceal itself from him.
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