Home?

You know, I often find myself wishing I could go home. How funny is that?
What's it all about though?
When I lived in Norwich though, I'd find myself thinking... I want to go home.
Problem is, I don't think Home really exists any more. Maybe this is something that everybody experiences at some pint in there life, or maybe not, maybe I'm just so stuck in a rut of sentimental bullshit that I find myself lost more often than not.
I will be looking for the comfort. I look for everything familiar and the people who I like the best.
I look for friends, both real and inanimate. I look for Sirius. I look for my 'tools' - my paints, my pencils, my papers and inks. I want my duck-feather duvet and comfy pyjamas. I want to understand what makes home, home. I want to be there and not feel like I'm missing something significant. There's just something missing where-ever I go.
So maybe that's what people deal with all the time, just a space, a black hole... that emptiness that knows how incomplete we are.
When I was in Norwich I thought that 'home' meant the family home, and It would all feel 'right' once I was here. I am so wrong though; this feels less like home than the Hotblack Road. I suppose Sirius is the anchor at the minute, which means I'm on a boat now, hopefully finding home. You big loser.