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Home is most insidious

Home is a most insidious prison. Traps are laid there with love and care. The jailers educate with this aim, “You can have a dream. But you must live in reality, not in dreams.” I have been following the same daily routine since I came home. It is comforting. No more information-overload by experience; instead I witness it second-hand. I do not speak to new people; the same few suffice. I do not try fresh things; instead I stick to well-worn tastes.  

A shell slowly forms around me. It is invisible and cocoons me in its sickly embrace. It is called responsibility – the kind that others want me to have. Family want me to obtain a girlfriend, fuck, marry and have a kid. That’s success. Relatives measure success by monthly bank statements. Friends measure with the same yardstick and how I can advance them. Naturally, they deny culpability.

So I cross my arms across my chest. Growl at them so deeply that the roots of their shoes blush. But the shell remains: I see – everything sama-sama. I hear – words, birdcalls, beeps, blips and scritks gush in one way, out another. I taste – it’s always the same foods. I feel – nope, I’m wrong again. I smell – after-rain lawns and oven-born breads are mute.  

When again will the air taste young and cleaned of mud?

I know! I know!

When I am on the road again.

You told! You told!

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