Going Home

I am walking out of the apartment. Again. Temporarily.
I walked out of many other apartments. Permanently. Forever.
I call this current one home. In the same way that I used to call other ones.
They were home to other people as well.
What made this one my home, my place, my safe place?
What would happen if I didn’t go back home this time?
What would happen if I would never find a home again, my home again?
Have I ever found a home even, my home even?

sweet home

I go to work, school, or on vacation, on a long trip or a short trip. Everytime, or almost anytime I step outside that apartment, I know once again, I will come back here, to this very apartment. Nowhere on earth is safer and more comfortable than this space. I might even have multiple apartments, but one will be more homey than the other. The one that I will always go back to, the sweet home.

What is so special about this apartment?
What makes this apartment my home?
Is it just a matter of habit?
Is it a matter of having control over the space?
Is it a feeling of safety because I lock myself out of the world?

dirty homeless

I don’t feel like going back. I feel like going forward. Only forward. It doesn’t matter if forward rolls back to the same place. I don’t want to think about coming back, collecting, carrying, or keeping track of stuff.

These four walls cannot be my only home.

Can I be home anywhere, everywhere?

Just imagine. Going, moving, staying. Visiting places, living and working in places. Doing nothing in places. Doing all of that without thinking, planning the way back. Not holding anything for the way back. Not planning anything when you come back. There is no back.


I feel like being wind, being touched and carried by wind itself.

What is hometown, homeland, home to me? To wind?

I want to be only as heavy as the body.

I don’t want to have a world of belongings, I want to belong to the world.

Wherever I go, I am home. I am homeless.

Can I go to a place where I already am?

Hello, is the universe home?