Home. It once was. It still is. Or is it?
It fits like an old sweater. Comfortable. Like muscle memory, it all falls into place. Right here, left there. Memories like yesterday; places I once went; people I once knew. Good times. Other times. Real times, three decades yet almost two decades past.
Put the kettle on and let’s reminisce about the good old days.
It’s different now. A bit shiny and new in places, blurry in others. What was once familiar is altered. Recognizable. It’s bigger and stranger yet also smaller and authentic and just around the corner.
Curiosity piqued, I’m compelled to immerse myself in it anew. See if I can expose what was once there, unbury memories from behind those new glassy facades. Travel along paths that had existed all along but were eclipsed. Maybe discover something to change my perspective. Reframe the past. Recast my future.
There are other places I call home and that call me home right back. Is it okay to have so many homes? Geographies that make you feel as if you never left but which are foreign all at once. They stick to you like Velcro tabs; the fibres snap together as if they were always destined to but when ripped apart, they breathe a sigh of relief and blessed independence.
You were home to who I was back then. We’re both different now but the DNA remains. I feel the Velcro pull, London Town.