I'm back from NYC, in a train between Paris and Lausanne. I sometimes (e.g. today) feel homeless. I have boxes, in the basement of my parent's house, containing my clothes, my books, my past. A few belongings used by friends and two bagpacks with me in El-fasher, always full, ready to be carried.
I'm not complaining. I've chosen this life. But sometimes, especially when I'm tired, I miss a small room somewhere, not in Darfur but for when I come back to Europe. A bed, a wardrobe, a place for my books, some of my comics. A few pictures on the wall. Just a space where I could let things unfinished on the floor; a book to read, a DVD to watch, a friend's address.
Meanwhile, I keep on buying books. For this place, like a trace of my life. Just a place called home, my home. One day, maybe.
3 comments:
your home is the world
yep... but the world doesn't have shelves :-)
According www.homeclothing.com:
HOME. where one feels good, really good even. sometimes the place where you actually come from. something that will always be there, in the end simply a comforting thought. however home is somewhat hard to carry around with you, home usually stays home. problem. What if you could take it with you?
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