Home

I didn't say I was going home.

Let me explain.

A home is a place you belong, a place you call your own. It isn't just a roof over your head or the walls surrounding to keep heat in. Well, it can be, but it's more than that. The physical structure, sure, is comforting in its own right, it gives something for your senses to take in and wrap around. The smell of freshly baked bread. The touch of white linen. The cracks in the woodwork, worn with age. The taste of whatever was for breakfast. Estonia told me that you could even smell it, home. That we have our own individual scents. I know what he meant. I used to know what he meant.

See, home is felt with the sixth sense, if you can even count it as a sense. You have this feeling when you're home, we've all felt it. You feel complete. There's something beyond the tables and chairs, something you can't grasp or hold in your hand, but it grounds you anyway. That's why people are in such pain when their house is destroyed, ruined, burned, bombed, and the like. Wealth isn't important. The things we collect just serve to trigger memories we fear we'll forget. You can rebuild using a stronger material—cement, this time, instead of wood—and it's not like the world is ending, you know?

You share your home with your family and friends. And even if you're alone, there's still a sense of comfort that otherwise solitude wouldn't have. I'm sorry; I've been told I'm not good at explaining things. But I think you understand. Or at least I hope you do.

Nobody can describe it. I'm not a poet or a writer; I don't have a way with words, so certainly I cannot grasp this emotion in my hand and lay it flat for all to see. In trying to pin the parts down, all meaning vanishes.

It's like that feeling when you go far away. Homesickness. The word itself is weird, you've become ill being so far from the heart of things. That's how you can be homesick at home; although your physical home may stand strong, your true home can be elsewhere, beyond the hills and oceans. I'm kind of like that. I'm not sick, I don't have a fever and I don't ache, but something is wrong. It's not something diagnosable, but it hurts all the same.

I don't mean to be egocentric here, but it's harder for me than it is for you. That's a fact. You still have chances to change things. I don't. My turn passed years ago. I'm a ghost from another time. I don't belong here. I can't adjust; it's not that simple for someone like me. Someone who doesn't even have a name. I've had names. None of them fit anymore. Not even Gilbert. I don't turn around when I hear people shout it. It's not mine. It's nobody's.

I'm a nobody.

I see ghosts of people who are still here. I try to touch them, but they slip through my fingers. Everything does. I don't fear disappearing. I fear being forgotten. Try it. Call my name. Ask someone if they know who I am. Chances are they'll shake their heads, or guess totally wrong. I lost all my material riches long ago, there lay nothing but ashes and dust in what used to be a proud kingdom. I can't say I didn't know it was coming—we rise and fall just like the tides. It just seemed so short.

Hey, can you see me? I'm standing on the corner, under the streetlamp. Wave if you can hear me. I'll smile if I see you. That's how you'll know it's me. I want to talk to you at the bus stop, for a few fleeting seconds; I want to run my fingers through your hair. I don't care who you are. That is to say, I don't care how old you are, where you're from, what you do. I've never been that judgmental, at least, I don't think so. I just need to share a moment. I don't care if we make eye contact or if we go out for a beer. It's pathetic, really, but I need to feel some connection, even to a total stranger. I want to know what your home feels like. The one that resides in your chest.

Because I don't have one anymore.