I’ve mosied my way into this creative non-fiction writing class run by Gill Rennie. (Check out her blog, A Light Switch, it’s rad), and this week’s topic is home. Prescribed reading, “A happy home” by Thomas De Quincey.

I want to go home.
Where’s home?
Pause. I don’t know anymore.
This used to be your home.
It’s different now.
It’s still the same place.
I’m different now?
Is that a question?
Not really.
What’s changed?
The people.
People are the same everywhere.
The places.
The places are just bricks and stone.
My position.
What’s shifted in your position?
I’m no longer where I was three years ago.
You’re no longer a student, yes.
More than that, I’m no longer on the inside.
Were you ever on the inside?
I don’t know. I thought I was.
On the inside of what?
I’m not sure.
Where is home?
I don’t know anymore.
When you close your eyes and think of home, what do you see?
Do you see anything?
No. Only darkness.
Can you ever go home again?
I don’t think so.
When will you know?
When I get there, I suppose.
What about the house you grew up in?
I was never attached to it.
Why not?
I wanted to leave.
Did you leave?
I did.
Would you say home is a place you want to leave?
Shit, you’re getting deep.
Am I asking difficult questions?
Am I asking difficult questions?
What are you doing?
What are you doing?
Stop taunting me.
Stop taunting me.
You’re being childish.
You’re being childish.
Pause. Silence

4 thoughts on “Home

  1. I read through Thomas de Quincey’s opium addled extolment of “happiness in a home” or “happiness is a home.” Then I read your piece. You not happy then?

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