When the heart is not where home is. . .

He misses home.
He misses the familiar sights, sounds and smells, that were so synonymous with the word ‘home’.

He misses the early morning fog that blanketed miles and miles of crop fields and hid the horizon.

He misses the song of the cuckoo, and the smoke going up in the air at a distance – a sign that the farmer’s kitchen was reluctantly starting a new, long day.

He misses the dawn – and how home looked at that wonderful time of the day.

He hasn’t seen dawn for a long time now. And, sadly, dawns just don’t look the same anymore. The cuckoo doesn’t sing anymore. The fog doesn’t play hide and seek anymore.

Change, he believes, is invariably for the good. But, his belief doesn’t help him a tad in coping with change and all its trappings. He struggles, feeling uprooted all the time.

He frantically rummages through the rubble of the place he once called ‘home’ – in the fervent hope of salvaging some remnants. Some thing he can hold on to for a little more time.

But, he only finds dead people peering down from photo-frames hanging from the wall.

Even the trees at home don’t look the same. Some have been cut down. Others are under attack from parasitic plants. Just as the pleasant images of home in his mind are under attack now from the present scenes of death and degeneracy.

The child in him pines for the past.

But, time is a one-way street.

And he has a tough time learning to live with this fact.

Inside his head, he shrieks like a mad man. But, the living dead do not hear his frantic cries. He tries to shake the living dead out of their self-imposed slumber.
But, it is futile.

And in the end, he just gives up holding on to the broken shards of glass for he can no longer see himself bleeding to death.

A day comes when he simply shuts himself off to nostalgia. In all forms.

And WALKS AWAY.

Home, folks say, is where the heart is. And his heart had finally left home.

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