I have always had a complicated relationship with the concept of home. I was lucky to have one as a kid—I took it for granted, as many kids do—even though it came with its subtle shadows and insecurities. I couldn’t figure those out at the time, and they didn’t bother me that much.
In my late teens, I grew fond of my self image as a forever wanderer. I had never been one, if only when reading a fantasy novel, but those thoughts struck me over and over. I dreamt of long journeys, far from the place I had been born, with a desire never to return, and maybe even be forever lost.
I only escaped home at the age of twenty-six. I cannot say for sure I would have called it home by then. I had wanted to leave much earlier, and you would have guessed right if you suggested that the lack of money had not been the reason I hadn’t. Shadows can be sticky and clingy.
Now, I’ve been living together with my wife for the last nine years. My olden dreams of the never-ending voyage have no more power over me. I am quite content, living far from the country of my origin, as I half-jokingly call it. But through all these years, renting places have never let me feel like home again. Maybe it’s just the impermanence and given enough time, I would have settled. Or maybe I’ve become territorial, and I simply need to own the place.
Whatever it is, I ask myself occasionally, “In the face of inevitable death, do I ever get to feel home again?”