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Writer's pictureYogesh Chandra

Homesick-Why We Miss Being at Our Homes?


It’s the fire inside us, ones that need to be encrypted, but of all that is—families are at the epicenter of such construct. And here we sit, ridden with sickness—it’s the one that these medical books don’t talk about or even bother to listen.

I too, away from the comfort of my home—inside the room that had me drawing like tomorrow did not matter. I miss being there, and I miss being me for who I was around my family members, and now I cannot even breathe.

To the compounding question—what is it that makes us miss home so much. Is there a complex pattern that if unfulfilled, may lead to a severe detachment from oneself? We just don’t miss being at home, but the idea of being around the persons who care most about you.

The world is a strange place to be, with every human trying to walk in neglect even if the wolves were attacking the last of the race—the other wouldn’t bother. But the idea of having one’s own blood—the pumping winds and the delicate shores that will erupt warmth like nothing matters anymore.

Everything will have left, but the script of the loving room—no one ever foregoes. It’s as if humans need—but to the reality, a word more powerful than just a ‘need’—for the abstractness of life—such difficult to comprehend.

I too, away from the shores of my own skin, I miss being at home right now. The winds keep on getting deliberate, but the non-surrendering vows that I took—the inevitable shades that make me who I am, there is no denying, but the connection that we so dearly hold.

And the worst, for the feeling is mutually governed by the unconditional heart—if it even functions during times when the sickness kicks in. Close to the walls, shadows rushing, but the steps of your sister, and your mother—one begins to miss the moments that were most definite.

Today, as the new wind tries to take over, we have—but a short span to think, and with all that is—there is nothing like home. Places will portray life and death but the corners of each home, undeniable walls that have so many memories attached to it.

And still I continue to wonder—the art of being such homesick that you’d want to cry till the lungs were gone—and gone are the wishes that floated beside you.

And for me, things don’t bother, but the mind that has a special place for home, and my sister, my mother and my brothers. There is, but a selective diary, for the script— to narrate my life, one has to have a sense of understanding how much I miss being at home.

-Yogesh Chandra

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