WHAT IF HOME IS AN AGE, AND I GREW OUT OF IT
naima bei der kellen
I fell out of my bed tonight. I dreamed two rats twice my size were chasing me. They swung pans of
copper and iron. This morning, I woke up and went into the kitchen. No one was awake yet. I drew
and tried to create a dance and played the piano in an attempt to wake my parents up. When they’d
gotten up the apartment smelled of coffee and bread. With my head not yet reaching the kitchen
counter, I could only catch a fleeting smell. The air felt warm and melodic on my skin. They
dressed me, but it has all gotten so dark.
I open my eyes, drops of sweat sitting on the tip of my nose. Was it a bad dream, why should I
sweat otherwise?
My eyes focus on the ceiling. Recently, I’ve started having dreams about what was.
I don’t think it is a bad dream, it is the waking up that puts sweat on my nose.
I stare at the ceiling and think of her, and why I am not her anymore.
Wondering, if when I dream of the past I really dream of being home, I try to close my eyes.
The words don’t stop. The never ending stream of thoughts and vines crawling up in my brain never
seem to come to an end.
Can I ever find home again, if I have to leave my childhood behind?
What if home isn’t the spiritual feeling within yourself that travelers seem to feel?
What if for me, home is being three sitting at the table on my birthday, squinting so the flames on
the candles start shifting shape again.
Being five lying on my bed. These walls are all I’ve ever known and there is no discomfort in that.
The sounds of music and people talking in the living room fill me with that special warmth, the
feeling that there will be someone looking out for me.
Being four and waking up in my parents bed because I dreamed of leaving home the night before.
What if home does not lie within me or places I am yet to find?
What if what I perceive as home, really is just an amalgamation of pictures, smells and memories
that make me think of being not yet tall enough for my head to reach the kitchen counter.
What if home is not a feeling after all.
If home is a faint memory, distant and unable to fully grasp – will I be able to find it again?
Hi, I am Naima and I am from Germany. I like green nail polish and creating as much as possible. I mostly write rants, short scenes and the occasional poetry, but am trying to be more experimental once in a while :). I write about everything that comes to my mind and needs to break out of it, but also like trying to understand perspectives apart from my own by writing from different points of view. I love all sorts of literature. My favourite authors - and thus also biggest inspirations – include writers such as Clarice Lispector, Simone de Beauvoir and Patti Smith.