home

Home feels like a museum I have been invited to spend time in. Full of artefacts from my own life.

Home feels like a laboratory experiment. Remove the rat from its normal environment. Obliterate any notion of normal. Return it to its former environment. Observe for a month.

Home feels like it is watching me. The objects are assessing my progress or lack of. The floor is gauging my weight. The walls have graphs concealed within their cracks, charting progress. Or lack of.

Home is the camellia waiting to bloom. Green daffodils shoots breaking through to tease on a daily basis.

Home is a waystation. A lightning rod. A diving chamber. A clock.

Home is subterranean.

Home is the sound of the wind and the shimmer of drizzle beyond a bedroom window.

Home is lying in bed. A bed. This bed.