Home n. the place where one lives permanently, esp. as a member of a family or household.
This is the story of she. She often wondered what home was. She never really understood what a family dinner was, nor did she comprehend who lived at home. She never ever felt home, never felt permanence, because of the temporality of existence. She moved constantly, in her thoughts, fleeting from one place to another in search of freedom, in search of happiness, in search of a home that she never knew how to define. She held on to her memories, stained glasses and dirty shoes as she fought the pain, the terror and the tremors. She never forgot those happy moments which gave her hope even when she felt like she had transcended to Erebus. “We have to move. It’s time to go to the new home,” they said. She nodded, but just lay there looking at the curtains shuffling, the photographs that filled the bare walls, the books that were stacked all over. She would carry them with her, to the next place, and the next. Maybe that was her home. The shards of glass that held her tears, paper filled with words of love, trinkets that jingled with memories of sleepovers and cuddles, pillows that smelt like joy and stained glasses with traces of chocolate. That was her permanence amidst the swishes of time, it was her safe haven. Home was not the place or the people, home was the memories. And she was ready to make a new home.
Black dress: Thrifted, Dupatta: Mom’s, Necklace: Stalkbuylove, Shoes: Pondicherry
All photographs were shot using a tripod.