Wednesday, 8 April 2015

Exiled at home...

During a casual conversation in class the other day, I was introduced - unintentionally by the other person - to another side of what I've been very thankful for over the last 2 years.

Since January 2013, I'd been living at home by myself till I shipped myself to college last August. For almost 17 months, I was living by myself at the place I had grown up in, the place I had scrapped my knees playing cricket in, the place in which I made several friends who I still hold dear, the place I called home. I'd always looked at this as a rare comfort. What else would you call being in a relatively expensive city by yourself in your early 20s without having to pay rent or worry about the general things people of this mould usually worry about! I didn't have to worry about other families in the building constantly being aware that they had a bachelor living amongst them; about coming home late well past midnight or not coming home at all for a few days at a stretch.

The other side isn't this accommodating.

I was exiled at home. I realise now that the opposite of home isn't always exile and the opposite of exile isn't always home. The forced exile at the very home you grew up in, formed memories in, tackled early life in, got hurt in, got told that it's okay in, heard stories in...I came back to an empty home every night. Then there was silence until I spoke. Then there was stillness until I moved. Nobody to push, nobody to move, nobody to speak, nobody to speak to, nobody to listen to, nobody to shove, nobody to see. Nobody.

Home is when you're okay with the notion of home changing; drastically and dramatically in an instant.


Bren Murphy said...

Love your pictures and the magical way you have put your story across - you're an inspiration and I am following your journey - awesome work!

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