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I have struggled to find a home where I could rest.

All I could find were walls, 

that held the promise to hold me,

shelter me, 

but all they did was contain me.

The cleanness of the walls barely became a canvas

of my morphing anxieties.

Their protection against the outside clamor,

brought no peace.

I couldn’t build a home inside the people

I had the blissful chance of being close with,

for they were forever changing,

as if colors of varying dyes were being added,

in the water their vessel contained,

predictable over what color might form next

but changing nevertheless.


I couldn’t build a home that was bound to be broken

for I might not have the strength to piece it back together.


I have since found a home in books,

where people share their life experiences

behind the veil of a persona,

a fictitious character,

which is as real as all our memories and thoughts,

for the person who reads them.

People may change,

but the books they have written would remain the same old way,

even when with time and age, I would reread a different story,

cloaked with my own experiences.


The stillness books have, their perceived permanence,

gives my intellect an illusion of significance,

while giving my emotions tranquility.


These words read from a screen are all I have to call close to a home,

and for now, it is enough to give my soul peace to carry on.

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