My first writing task of my academic year was to write about home, inspired by writers in Granta magazine..
Simple enough, right?
This task was set right as I fell into emotional turmoil, torn between my hometown of Bristol and my new life in Plymouth.
To define, create, encompass ‘home’ onto a page, with 200 word limit, was near impossible.
Considering it was my first piece of creative writing for my course, and the fact it should fall under ‘Creative Non-Fiction’, it was surprisingly philosophical and made me sit for hours, questioning myself and my identity. What exactly IS home?
I tossed and turned over this concept for a ridiculous amount of time, feeling joy and excitement in my new house in a new city, and yet feeling too detached from the place where 18years and 2months of my life had been spent. How?
I felt a thousand miles away from Bristol, disappointed in what I found after returning just weeks after beginning Uni life and eager to return to my new house in Plymouth.
But it’s not all roses around the door here either. I’m in a half-way point, the proverbial no-man’s land, divided between the freedom of independence and the ties that come with it, missing my parental home
and yet glad to be gone. How many oxymorons can I feel and how many contradictions should my head have to go through?
I don’t know, is the honest answer. Perhaps one day, I will discover, but for now it remains a conundrum to be considered at a later date. Anyhow, this is what I produced for my seminar tutor to ponder over. The 200 words limit was a real challenge –
perhaps one day I will revisit this piece and extend it 🙂
please enjoy, feel free to comment, all constructive criticism welcome and appreciated!
Despite the large majority of my life being spent within the walls of the same house, there is an underlying feeling that this is not all that forms my home.
For me, ‘home’ represents completeness.
It carries an individual’s identity, largely shaped by their co-habitants and in consequence, the memories created and stored there.
But I wander restlessly from that house, as if searching for something else, something more – although what, I am not sure.
Perhaps home is more of a spiritual connection, rather than physical actuality. My family roots can be traced to a tiny Irish village nestled in the hills and paddy fields of West Ireland,
and despite only visiting there once, I felt I was returning. The same may be said for a nameless cove concealed in the cliffs of the English South Coast, where the rocks whisper
of a last meeting and a lost soul, the destination of choice for heartstrings to be pulled, at least to me. That particular corner of the world speaks volumes to me, completing me,
connecting me to what is since lost. It may not be bricks and mortar, but it feels like home to me.
Perhaps the saying ‘Home is where the heart is’ isn’t such a cliché after all.