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Some sad stories in this thread.
The home I was brought up in is currently where my mother still lives.
I like going back there but now I feel that home is my current house.
A few years ago my parents renovated the house so that the interior I recall from my childhood is mostly gone.
Also, when I moved out my mother turned my old bedroom into a study.
I suppose some things are still 'home' to me there, but in many ways I don't feel as comfortable there as I once did.
I also have some very bad memories in that house too.
I think possibly one day I will move back, because the house is actually in my name now.
I am still fond of the house because it's got a good area and location. It's a 6th floor apartment with a large balcony and a sea view, and decent neighbours, for the time being.
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Whether we write or speak or do but look
We are ever unapparent. What we are
Cannot be transfused into word or book.
Our soul from us is infinitely far.
However much we give our thoughts the will
To be our soul and gesture it abroad,
Our hearts are incommunicable still.
In what we show ourselves we are ignored.
The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged
By any skill of thought or trick of seeming.
Unto our very selves we are abridged
When we would utter to our thought our being.
We are our dreams of ourselves, souls by gleams,
And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.
Fernando Pessoa, 1918
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