During the incipient of our lives, especially the teens, home is always described and felt, in an unforgivable pithy manner. There isn’t much to say about it, other than friends and the colorful outside world. A teenager, you cannot wait to turn your immaculate face to the gate (of home) over there: you think you are going to imbibe whatever happiness of the world, and become often too stupor to be aware of being somewhat imbrued by the sorrow or happiness you’ve undergone. This lasts until you desperately attempt to search an emollient to you weary soul.
Home is a marvelous place, you’ll soon find out, when you “come” home again, that desultory wander is not only allowed but in some senses abetted. Complaisance from your parents tells their eagerness to ameliorate the aloof relationship contributed by your being absence of home for a certain period of time. They are the first, after a long time, to tell you not to work too hard genuinely. Now you take a distance to love this space that nurses you into “you”. You covertly find out, however, that you cannot find a suitable “signified” for such a passion. The image of home that you pensively dream of when you’re away from it seems never exist now. This is really contradictory because can’t you see, parents and the whole family’s love is there effusive. Yet the strident argument is not less harsh. This discovery dilutes your strong attachment to that image of home you foster. You know that home is never immutable, as you always consider it is. It is a mixture of despotism, destitute of communication often, and despondence of some unfulfilled wishes. The more the plots of home unfolded, the more captious you become, and more execration pile up. This is like when the more you like a person, the stronger you want to own him/her. And you’re always so picky about what you own. You hope everything come near you to be perfect, yet you never stop pursuing something that is far more imperfect, and is far away or elusive, no matter how much you’ve been stymied.