this country this place this road this shelter
six billion plus say it when asked
some change it as often as changing clothes
some fear it, some revel in it, some are indifferent
except for the homeless, there are always at least two
(the current one and the nostalgic one)
a component of identity, some cling to it like a lifeline
others wish to distance themselves from the pain of it.
it is furnished with fixtures, characters, situations, pets
illusions, traditions, and some composition of dirt that goes
unnoticed by residents but disgusts all non-residents.
when one departs a defensive armor substitutes for it
but a pervasive longing controls until the return. some
are full of light and life with warm laughter, music,
children, friends, dancing, chores, books, conflicts, noise,
joyful noise . . . . Love!
some are dark and cold, empty, missing some key
ingredient, large and hollow, unfinished lacking the
trappings of normalcy, struggling to provide even the
very basics of shelter. turn on all the lights, play the
music, acquire luxuries, throw parties with giant bonfires
prepare gourmet meals, take jacuzzis, sleep on pillow
soft beds with tantalizing linens, it remains empty. it is
only as complete as the completeness of its residents.
search a thousand locales to find it and it eludes you
visit a million ideas to understand it and it eludes you
fuck a hundred lovers to feel it and it eludes you
fight a revolution to possess it and it eludes you
work a million hours to buy it and it eludes you
build five hundred houses to approximate it and
still . . . it eludes you. for each it is only found in one
true other. so come, my love, and make Your home in me.
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