No, I am not talking about Le Guin’s novel. I am talking about myself.
I just moved back to my native country. Native, of course, referring to my birth here. I was away for sixteen years, and that’s a long time to be away from the place one calls “home”. What I am trying to say is that I don’t feel like I have come home, really. And I wonder if I will ever be able to call a place home.
Everything seems out of place for me here. The longer I stay, the weirder I feel. Like a tourist who forgot to return. Return home. But where is that? I lived in different countries of Europe, also in Latin America. There is a piece of home in each of these countries for me – familiar streets and stores, faces and activities, mentalities and food. But no HOME.
I am feeling restless, cornered, isolated and overwhelmed. I don’t really know what I am looking for, if for anything at all, except for this feeling of contentment and relaxation that means home for me.
I hope one day to capture it and feel at ease where I live.