'It feels so resuscitating,'
Said he,
'To be back home.'
But I stood blank-faced.
What expression, my stone-carved visage, incapable of addressing the liberty of his enthusiasm,should have expressed?
I felt nothing.
And when I could not comprehend the notion of his having this unusually intense sense of pleasure,
I, almost blushing in embarrassment,asked,
'What makes you talk of your home with this melodramatic emotion?'
'I do not see why one won't act like this on a subject like that?'
Said he,expressing an unkind surprise.
I thought it undesirable to speak of the gravity of my suffering and the generosity of the unceasing torment.
I remained silent.
But in a constant struggle to think the matter out, I talked to myself,
'I do not remember when was the last time,I saw relief-gentle and quiet-
Let alone a yet undiscovered fervour, sprouting in me on returning home.
But I,most honestly,wonder if I have ever had a 'home' or have simply kept myself deluded into believing that this fortified chamber is my home,
In which I seem to have been kept a prisoner,
Away from my parents, far away from the family I have always craved for.
My naivete tells me that I do have a 'Father'-and a 'Mother'.
But I do not have 'Parents'-as it concerns the reality of my situation.
I suppose this random assortment of thoughts might just make me seem crazy.
For all I want this very moment is,
Either a home,a true home,
Or an eternal sleep in which 'indifference' becomes the essence of my existence.
Both,I guess,are not possible-
Such is my misery.