Home by Abraham Riesman
by Jonathan / BKLYN
Home is the place between sleep and wake, alone on a clean bed, nothing pulling me away. Home in that moment is the bleeding self, blurring out into oneness, or perhaps nothingness. I feel most at home when I start to lose the self into mild evaporation, so long as I'm safe and the world is quiet. Perhaps my cats are there. In those moments and physical states of home, I am solely myself, yet I'm not clearly demarcated from the rest of creation. The walls crumble when I remember all the things that should take me away from that state — and I begin to hate myself for my sloth and vapidity. The walls fall when I have to be a clearly bordered human consciousness again, which is, of course, a requirement for life. I yearn to return home when I am in any other state, but know it's an indulgent and shameful impulse. There is no way for me to stay at home, and I have to learn how to embrace both states in their proper time.
Abraham Riesman is a staff writer at New York Magazine