Somewhere
I walked through a small forest. If I’d been born here, would the firs look like nostalgia?
With my eyesight, maybe they’d be looming, green blurs instead.
Nostalgia, to me, is made of the weather — when it’s a certain kind of sunny that feels like spring; the air is crisp with autumn leaves; winter covers the ground to forecast a new beginning.
But where is my home?
Tags: belonging
2 responses to “Somewhere”
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Since what we all think of as “reality” and “place” is really a construct of our minds, home is inside of us.
I know that sounds cheesy, but it is literally true.
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Still, I find myself wishing I had a memory of “home,” the way a lot of people do. I thought about how Bakunin yearned to hear about Russia’s ponds and fields and frogs before his death. When I am in his position, will I have any memories to yearn for?
I imagine you can relate in ways, given your upbringing.
Thank you for replying, I’ll try to carve out my own sense of belonging. ☺️
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About Me
𖹭 Aeris 🏴
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This blog is more of an exploration than a statement.
Thinking in public; staring at the stars.
I’m dreaming of a better world.
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