I feel like being in a prison. Prison of sentiments and passions.
Physically I had enough rest. Didn't go out since I arrived home yesterday morning. Didn't feel like going out. Although I didn't want to admit this but my homeland has become a scary place. The same affection one has towards a foreign land.
Is this the feeling of exiled? Have I been away for too long? Periodically, I have been away for 6 years. That's more than a decade.
Does that time enough to change one's affection towards one's homeland?
Unfamiliarity is what I feel.
The restlessness is not entirely incomprehendible. The house is still the same. My room is still the same. The car, the porch, the backyard are all the same. What has changed?
It is as if I'm still stuck in time. 6 years ago. Everyone around already 6 years ahead of me. I have missed out the history that I could have shared with them. Parents, siblings, friends. All have spent the past 6 years without me being around. No matter who do I talk to, I am talking to someone who does not have me among their daily life in the past 6 years. That leaves out a big vacuum.
No wonder this restlessness.
When I miss home, am I missing the life, the place, and the people, as an trans-temporal objects of affection? Or am I missing the the life, the place, and the people which are 6 years ago, which are temporally-subjected, and sadly, which are not retrievable?
Am I silently crying? What are the tears like? I wonder reluctantly while deeply appreciating the people around who try to fill this vacuum. Rehabilitation.
"Life begins on the other side of despair." (Jean-Paul Sartre)