The book that I am writing, although mostly still only in my heart, is being re-written and again written on new, fresh pages. The story is as new as it is old and it takes me there, to a place I once was familiar with, a place that I used to know and lived in. My travels brought me far away from the place I once called home.
I am going back there now, to the place which once was home, and I find that the path is slightly different than I remembered – it’s still the same, but different, as though I see it with the eyes of the child for the first time.
The sea is calm and draws me nearer my birth place in a slow but steady pace. The winds are favourable and view is clear. I can see the shores where I once used to run as a child. The child that is still within me, me the man, the newly born soul with the open heart.
There is a beacon beckoning me home, steering me right. I can hear it sing through the air, brought by the winds, the voice of the almost forgotten. There is a promise of peace again. I can feel it as it flows through my once uneasy body.
As I land and feel the sand under my feet, I know that this adventure has only just started and I lay down right then and there, just to stay in that moment for a little while longer. I am, strangely as it may still seem to me, home again. I start to cry. I am home.