When Home Isn’t Familiar — Strike Magazines
For a long time, I believed home was supposed to be constant. It was the fixed point on the map, the place that waited patiently while I went out and became different versions of myself. Returning home would feel like slipping into an old coat: a little worn, maybe, but still mine. Then, you had to move. Instead, coming home sometimes feels like stepping into a room where all the furniture has been left in the same place, but the air has changed. The walls are familiar, yet something in them no...
