The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.
I do not believe, (of course, there may be many dissents with my opinion) that artists can ever find a home. By artists, I hope to include every person who has a thirst to create wonder out of their lunacy. I had always adored the fairy tales which were fed into our young minds for they illuded a mysteriously perfect world that would end with a ‘they lived happily ever after’. Over the years, we all came to the conclusion that those fairy tales where the knight in shining armor comes for his damsel in distress suited the children’s’ books and hence, no best-selling novel is based on a prince charming holding out his hand for his Cinderella.
Nevertheless, we do need a safe haven to run to amidst the humdrum of the crowd that threatens to gulp us. And artists, they are wanderers in search of the tales inscribed in the yellow pages of a forgotten diary or the chirping of the birds. The mind is never at peace for the ruminations are inundating and can never be doused. We are storytellers, you and I. Brushes, ink, lenses and music are our escapades.
And they incessantly beguile me. I was caged until I lost my home. Until I realized that I never had one. Forever enticed into meanders, I have come to being xenophilic ensnared to the wanderers that I meet. Scarred, and yet never learned.