I have this notion of coming back home. It should feel like an event in itself, an event that carries a degree of finality with it - not like a period, but like a subtle pause. A grand novelty associated with the place - home.

The preparations, though frugal, follow a kind of ritual that seems like ceremoniously casting away each coat of burden one by one. It is like a devout undertaking pilgrimage in order to cleanse oneself before entering the hallowed gates of a sanctuary. What lies ahead is a time for rejuvenation; a time for smelling the roses, a time for absorbing the idyllic scenery of a familiar place and dear faces.

Each homecoming feels like a chapter in my book closing - or perhaps, a page flipping over. This is, perhaps, the reason why it isn't too frequent.

Aesthetic Blasphemy | An Odd Homecoming
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