„Maybe, it never even was a home“, my witch whispers a reminder into my ears as the train flies along fields and the raindrops start to paint onto the landscapes, with the scent of our Vanilla Latte warming up my soul.
Maybe it never was.
Not if it left a heart like this.
Not if it broke so easily.
And not if it abandoned us so fragile and vulnerable.
Always enjoying the distance.
The distance of light flying by deep at night.
The distance of the road.
And of tracks and the vending machine at the platform.
The distance between Amsterdam and Prague!
Maybe it never was a home, because it left this soul searching.
Searching for shelter.
Searching for someone.
There in the distance!
It had to be there.
In the distance of music and voices in a summer night!
Maybe, if it had been a home, it would have withstood the thunder, the fire.
It would have withstood Dystopia.
And maybe the demon was there to show us.
To smile at us.
To give us a hug.
And make us see.
Make us see how we cling onto the idea of a home.
Cling onto places and people.
Everything that paints the idea.
The idea of a home to dream about.
I realized that only those parts of my life could have been torn up by Dystopia that were ready to be broken. It is not easy to understand this, and it is not a happy thought. It means that a lot of things and of people that were meant to be safe were fragile to their very core and gave into the storm passing by. But it also makes me value those very few that have never broken even more. Anyone who found a way to come through plague and war to exchange a few words, anyone who found a way is worth it all.
And until there is the next moment of someone making it and getting through all of this mess, I am going to have another coffee and another waffle on a rainy train ride with my witch.
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Mistress witch writes 