Saraswatink

Home is carving one’s own comforting reality. A timespan, a feeling borrowed from a previous space, an instinctual goosebump, a deep core lift.

Hiking feels like Home. Being in a state of flux, passing through yet arresting time. One step into another marking the space in which we stood and predicting the imprint in which we will be. When we feel at Home, we are sculpting time out of our life path, picking berries. Home is multiplicity of time and space.

Jittering leaves in a park and distant child’s play, jittering leaves like blades of mackerel. Evening sunlight sleeping with nature, a barn owl calling in the night. Home is the sum of our memories, those sensorial slices of time. When we forget, we lose our sense of what home means.