A moderate sense of longing has become my parasite. It is devouring its host slowly and with an unforgiving attitude, an overshadowing and an encompassing of all other things; a longing for somewhere to call home finds me and is bent on me. In the last few weeks before leaving my friends and family, I found myself asking the same question a hundred different ways- What is home? Is home a place to find refuge within the arms of loved ones? Is home just walls and wooden beams, a place to stow your things? A place to install yourself and download after a hard day? Somewhere to simply sleep? As I join thousands of freshman in the United States and elsewhere who are moving and creating a new life, my idea of home has begun to slowly evolve and take shape.
After moving in, unpacking, meeting, greeting, connecting, I find myself in an unexpected slump. Perhaps it is all of the forced friendships composed of names and hometowns tossed out into the atmosphere and quickly forgotten. It could be the lack of male interaction on my particular floor in the dorm. Maybe it is all of these things combined with the realization that this semester may indeed kill me, and that I haven’t found my sense of belonging yet; I haven’t found my sense of home.
Time is on my side.
-A
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