"Home" was probably written during one of my periods of introspection about the past.
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It's a place that's nowhere.
It has a distant warmth, and an intense sense of family.
There's a feeling of social ostracism, of teasing and persecution.
The weather's warm all year round but, incredibly, it also snows.
Just when you have settled in, learned to deal with the local reality, life yanks you up by the roots. The territory's familiar, you're the one who's out of sync. You broil without let-up until you're limp as a wet rag.
Sometimes you find that sense of warmth, of family, again and sometimes you wonder what went wrong! It's touchy, feels like a porcupine-that's toxic! You're left with the unpleasant fact that no one expected you to turn up!
It's quiet-like you have drifted into a backwater eddy-but sometimes it's not a good thing. Often you find you have the perfect place only to out-grow it. In the process you find another place is almost too good to be true.
Home is everything.