Home is so far from home.

You were my home
for so long.
Now I realize that humans
cannot
be homes.
If homes can leave,
then they are not
homes.

It was not a triumphal return. Home, as I had known it, was gone.

Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.

For, what is home? Surely more than a set of rooms, a roof, an address? Home suggests belonging. Suggests warmth, safety, companionship. Love.

Home is run no more.

Home is a concept. It’s one of a story that we cling to so deeply. When your home has been really, “here is my couch, here is my this, here is my that,” it becomes like mine. For me, home is where people who are loving are. It could be on the street. It could be inside of a tent. It could be in a place where they’re not given a land, then that is a place called a slum. It could be in the high rises of New York or in the middle of chaos in Mexico City. And the physical piece of a home is so important, especially when the weather—sun, cold—is against you…

No hay nada como el hogar.

With people like us our home is where we are not.

Where we love is home, home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.

Home life as we understand it is no more natural to us than a cage is natural to a cockatoo.

Unless you are at home in the metaphor, you are not safe anywhere.

In this house with starry dome,
Floored with gemlike plains and seas,
Shall I never feel at home,
Never wholly be at ease?<p>On from room to room I stray,
Yet mine Host can ne’er espy,
And I know not to this day
Whether guest or captive I.