Come, Come Home

Come home.

Here’s the address; it’s simple and straightforward:

It’s open from all four sides. You do not need to knock, nor do you need to call out. There is no door I have to ever, open. The walls have lost themselves to time and the ceiling is does not exist. There’s sunlight however. Lot’s of it. It’s harsh and it is in abundance. I wish you were here. We could share the shade that you carry. I’d almost steal it from you.

Come home.

Look for the house that has Love written all over it. You do not need to knock, nor do you need to call out. I’ll know it is you.

Whether you are inviting life or you are inviting friends, it is the same thing. We just need to give the address and the location. My battered home, crumpled by sheer existence and time should not be a factor.

And this abode of friends has been empty. For a while now. Dust settles in layers – each layer, a question of where has he gone; why is she not here? Each layer of dust; an unanswered question of an empty space.

Lost, the King cries! Yet, there may be hope that this garden will exhibit a life that it had, once experienced.

PS: Thanks is due to Sudarshan Fakir, for all that happened in italics in this post.

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