Last night, while I tossed and turned late into the night wondering if I would fall asleep before my alarm rings, I was struck by a strange thought. It was more a cry, a wail, than a thought.
“I want to go home.” Said a voice in my head.
This was my house I was in. I paid loan instalments every month. And yet, the thought said “I want to go home.” I thought briefly about my mother’s house. But no, pat came a reply that that also was not “home”.
In all my years, with all my insomnia, in between every high and low, I had never felt as alone as I did right then. Or as lost.
I do not know where this haven is that I am seeking. What is home? Where is it? Why is it eluding me?