I'll find my way home

What does home mean to me? Hard to say. As a teen, I’d desperately want to flee far away from my home, believing that my identity was somewhat to be found elsewhere, hidden behind the thrill of exotic places and disguised in a foreign accent. So I went abroad, moved from cities, walked on endless roads, switched languages, changed beds and roofs over my head only to look for… something. I still don’t know what is exactly that I am looking for, but I never truly feel at home anywhere. I find myself wandering around places and houses in order to taste the warmth of a home by the yellow lights that it emits, while staying out in the cold at night, pondering over what’s inside a closed door and what it would feel like to open it. Today I’m 22 and I intend to find out what is missing. So I decided to go back to my island, Sicily, to explore and establish a bond with a place I had always refused to call home. I shall dig into the dusty, old shelves of my memory to visit the places that defined my childhood; then I’ll bury the reasons that made me want to leave in the first place. Maybe, this way, I’ll finally get my real accent and the right lights for a portrait of my fragmented identity. Perhaps, this time, I’ll find my way home.