On Home

What's home and what's away, anyway? I've travelled enough that for me, home is where I am. I take it with me where ever I go; home is the lint in the bottom of my pocket. Home has never been people, for me. It has never been where my family is or where my friends are. Home has never been a specific place, either. I find that if you give me a couple of days I can find pieces of home anywhere; shreds of familiarity, little tributaries of the same river. So if that's true, why here? Why England? Why Guildford? Why come back here twice? I could write an entire book answering that question, but if I'm going to be succinct about it, I guess the answer is that this place makes me want to be quiet. Here I can be in stillness in a way I've never been able to anywhere else. It just feels right. Everyone's got to be somewhere; this is my somewhere. And running to it alone didn't scare me the way most people thought it should, because when you're going somewhere you know you're supposed to be, it's nothing but the most comforting thing in the world. I've found things in this place; in stepping through this looking glass. Things that I'd forgotten.