The Writer Travels Home.

Man, I haven’t been back home in a while.

Safe to say I miss it, but I just… can’t seem to come back regularly, you know, the way normal people do.

I haven’t seen these walls since the winds held hands with the winter, and the sun couldn’t do nothing but stand there and mourn. The rooms must ache with silence by now. Dust probably settles where love used to live.

I long for this place I used to call my own.

I too mourn it from time to time — tortured by wishes and what ifs, by memories that arrive uninvited and leave the door wide open behind them.

Perhaps nobody wants me there anymore.

Perhaps home got weary of waiting for my quick submission to the brilliance that is I.

So do I never go back?

Do I swallow my pride, pack half a bag, cross my fingers, and hope half this heart of mine is still enough for you and I? Because the rest just… wouldn’t understand why I ran away from home before. They never do.

And maybe that is the cruelest part of longing — knowing there is a place in this world that speaks your language fluently, yet still feeling like a stranger at its doorstep.

I was warned about this phase — or season, as he called it.

And strange to say, it wears me unconsciously.

And so, consciously, I submit to surrender and silence, greeting them as old friends I’ve long yearned for.

Oh Divine,

won’t You show me something magnificent?

Oh Divine,

won’t You offer me some courage in exchange for a little of my willpower?

Just enough to think about my home without grieving it.

Just enough to return without shame sitting beside me like an old friend.

Because despite everything, my heart still goes there before I do.

And still… it is all I have.”