The loss of home, some would regret, but I cannot. I cannot because there’s only more loss to be found in such a regret. When one loses one’s sense of home, it is rare to be reclaimed, because not a home was lost. The home is still there, it still stands among others. The home of the childhood, it can still be found. Its bricks are there, its back yard green as it was. The room that is filled with memories is now empty or filled with another child’s life.

This loss however in essence is a loss of the heart. It is the ability to feel at home that one is no longer capable of. It is the heart that has been drenched in the world and lost a home. It is the stream that dissolved in the ocean. Now, if I embrace a man, I embrace a body not a life. I hold in my arms the stone contours of the flesh. I feel not the compassion that puts me in his shoes, I do not see the world through his eyes, I do not undergo the immediate replacement of fates that a man with a home suffers if his neighbor is struck by tragedy. Nor is my own pain a tragedy, nor are you a fellow of man to me.

Do I shed tears for this solitude? Is this loss a sad occurrence like you, man with a home, believe it is? I cannot answer this, because you are not truely asking me nor yourself this question. For you know, you have no doubt, for you know not my loss. And thus I cannot cry. A man who is lost has nothing to cry over, nothing to fear. My tears would be dry instances of the past, of memories that belong to the past. The walls are still there, I have no shelter, I am here. My tears are sweet sugar cubes of the present that fall on the world’s wet ground. Now, how can I cry when this soil is sweet and wide? Is the soil of your home sweet and wide with tears of loss? So where are your tears then for not possessing such a beautiful loss? Where is the sadness that is enclosed by the plastered whiteness of your home, because you are there, in your home? Hear I breathe. I regret no loss because I have no home.

And you wonder about my wandering. Don’t I miss, do I lack out of necessity, the tallness, the firmness by which your roots entangle in the earth of your garden? But I say that ground is dirt to me. The absence of a radius draws the contours of my space, there beauty has taken the place of home. Beauty lies in the absence. It invites to be filled with a greater passion, with greater fear, with greater joy, with greater sadness, that is not. And you find relief in your home and cuddle for warmth in a chilling night.