Strange Beings, we are,
Constantly shaped by moulds of situation,
Transforming the alien into home...
And homes that we have left behind,
We incessantly forge new homes,
Conquering inhibitions and rigidity,
Opening a door where there wasn't one,
Surprising ourselves with our fluidity.
And once a home is made,
Time cruelly commands us forth,
Turning a blind eye
To all the struggle that made
An alien place home;
All of it dissolves,
And crystallizes into experience;
And past homes in memories roam.
A sundry London list
3 weeks ago