A few days ago I woke up in the ICU at the hospital. My eyes opened to the cold, white ceiling constructed of projecting geometric shapes. And my first thought was that I wanted to go home.
The first thought I remember ever having was that I wanted to go home.
The problem is that home doesn’t exist unless you create it, or unless someone creates one for you, and I’ve never had that experience. It is as abstract a concept as infinity or eternity. Or death. Yet it is still my first thought and my last: I just want to go home.