I never have a straight answer for “where” or “what is home ?”  I see warm colors, steam from tea, hear slight pops of wood in fireplace – a place to gently demolish the walls I have constructed during the day. 
Rare, flirtatious encounters with this space arrive intermittently but never linger. 
When I was six, I moved to a new school and got in fights with kids.  When I was seven, I realised mum and dad weren’t lovers.  Taut airspace like snapping cable at dinner table and surly retort – I lacked the words at the time.  My parents weren’t uncaring; they were uninspired. 
I respond to the question, “I left home as soon as possible after high school.”
No amount of uppers or orgasms cures this malady.  I’ve snorted pills, body-echoed the vagueness of mechanical sex.  This is not mental illness or biological dysfunction, quantifiable, but sense of emptiness incapable of being tied to time or place with words such as “nostalgia” or “wanderlust.” 
I’m lacking for something that quite possibly may not exist, so I fill it with work.  Strumming the guitar.  Reading into the early morning.  Painting.  City-hiking.  Recording odd sounds and guitar riffs.  Writing on scraps of paper during down time at work.  Wandering.  Curiosity. 
I apologise for “speaking like a book” because I most likely spend more time with them than people.  I have constructed walls out of scrap paper and 3-square meals out of 10-seconds at a time of neighbour’s saxophone or shrieking car alarms. 
The best response I have is, “standing alone back-of-room, heavy-lidded, oblivious, swaying imperceptibly to sounds emitting from speakers, faraway onstage, I feel satiated in that breath.” 
“Page 39.” From upcoming book, “Psychosexual.”  Xerox & Gouache. 2016. See more of my work in the gallery

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