There's something strangely symbolic about the way our house used to smell. When we arrived it was a warm, sweet smell. But as time went on the smell changed, you could say that's not the only thing that changed.
The house on the hill took on a smell that signified all of its troubles. A decayed rotting smell. Something had died, several times. It wasn't what it used to be, and neither was I because of it.
It's so easy to pack up our belongings, shift from four walls to another, but we always leave something behind, and something is always left with us. I may have left an empty shell of a life I used to live, but the smells will always stay with me. The ones that were often so enticing, tempting, they drove me away.
I don't know if I would have ever called it home, but right now I can't call anything home. And I don't think I will for a long time. Maybe I've learnt that home is not a place, so much as it is a feeling.
It feels like I'm forever leaving, running, and there are things I miss already that have been left behind. A closeness to you, the last thing I've been holding on to, to keep me sane. It's gone now and I don't know how to deal with that. Although sudden loss is no stranger to me, I will miss the journey home, the one that gave me hope over convenience.
No matter how foreign these places are to me, they are no stranger than myself, and the places I have found within.
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