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Home Coming

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Is there something awaits us in our home? A sense of sentimental attachment or a kind of purgatorial self-alienation from the loneliness conceived by the multifaceted façade of our social dramas?
It’s always a great relief to be back at home. Everything remains the same; preserved by the radical consistency of time and memory, we realize the treasure preserved by the home from the ruins of the same time and memory is nostalgia in subjective correlation. You see the same green Cyprus standing gloriously; hear the swan songs of willow, rhyming and lulling of the brooks, whistling of the bamboos, murmuring of the woods and the fondling of zephyr; there, you smell the same age-old virgin earth. Father, mother, brothers and sisters, cousins and friends and your little secrets come together for a ride with you in the numbness created by your alienation effect; your room is like a newly wedded girl wanting to be loved and cared immensely. The walls want to hear your new stories and secrets; they missed you badly, probably! Everything remains same. When you look at yourself in the absence of your numbness, you’ll find that it was you, CHANGED. 
 
What makes it home? Is it the concrete structure or the people living under its shade; or say, the various random elements associated with the material structure and the people living within? Or rather, memories associated with all those things? Home is everything that accommodates everything, it is every tree, grass, leaf, green, brook, bird, butterfly,, seven sisters, cat and dog; rain, wind, day, night; happiness, solitude, misery, ecstasy; father, mother, brothers, sisters, cousins, friends and neighbours; memories and your little secrets.

After all, home doesn’t change. It still accommodates everything. Paradoxically, beyond the radical consistency of time and memory home is home.

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