Homesick

Shane Cyriac

We fly far above the oceans; the green, mucky waves crumble on top of each other, fighting for a spot to breathe in the air. Over and over, one flies and the other dies in a constant battle with one another. They’re family, born right from the same home. But no matter how far they run, it’s all a falter, just to drown in the middle of nowhere. How many did they take with them? The ocean is so empty and lonely. All you could hear was anger and battle as waves clashed over lost prey. To be lost in the ocean, where all you see is blue blood for miles and miles to go until the empty sky stops it in its tracks. To only know that all is lost and you will never be found amidst your new home. 

We then look into the desert, miles and miles above the ground, but still able to see the dunes of dead spice sleeping through the day. Whereas the ocean was filled with war and tears, the desert truly is the land of the dead. The specks of sand, born millions of years ago, will never move or breathe again. Was it stillborn? As there was no family to be seen here, for all had passed away years ago. The desert tried so hard to live as water. Alongside hills and dunes, remnants of waves froze for miles to go, leaving a mockery of the ocean’s life. Perhaps there was life here, but wherever it is, it’s gone now. 

Yet, the desert was not all lonely. Walk long enough in the blistering heat, and a sun spider will make its home within the skin inside your pants. Become too cold in the night, and you will find warmth with a scorpion looking for a home as well. Whether or not they’d be a home for you, however, was all your choice. 

We moved toward the forest and, from above, it all looked like an attempt to be the sky. Green clouds filtered on for miles and miles, just like blades of grass. The wind ran from tree to tree, knocking all of them over in search of a home. Any crazed man would see this and believe the trees were pointing him toward salvation. But from the view up here, the trees looked just as lost as a child. And what could they have been hiding beneath themselves? More life? More fights? There had to be more than just dead dirt, dead mud, and dead branches left behind. Something had to be there, something had to live there. 

The man above me reminded me of the circle of life, not one of happiness and warmth of the kingdom of the jungle, but one of truth and death in the trenches beneath. Swarms of ants run, clip clap clip clap, to a lost insect just a few feet away. For the ants, a few feet is a war to travel, but in the end, solace awaits the entire family. As they reach it, a songbird swoops in and steals the lost insect for itself. No family awaits the songbird, no home, no love, and no peace. But for him, this one, tiny insect can provide just a moment of reprieve. He carries his temptation far past the trees, striking through the winds. Amidst a lake, a dead lake where no tears are dropped, no puddle sounds, and no waves fight, he makes a home amongst a dead, young tree buried just within the water. Before he can enjoy his meal, an alligator awakens from the water and snatches the young bird with no moment for realization. She was asleep, frozen deep beneath the water, finally awoken when an intruder a fraction of her size impedes upon her home. She has no family and no enemies, but the dead lake is still her home. And finally, before she could feel the taste of the young songbird, an old snake hiding within the branch attacked her. 

The alligator forgot that only the lake was her home, not the tree. Yet, even though the snake is barely any bigger than the songbird, its fangs drive just as deep and cut through the alligator’s skin. While the alligator defeated the snake, the old snake poisoned her forehead, leaving a nasty old tear, soon to be a scar for the days she has left. 

We fly back over our home. Just as lonely and dead as all before. As we sit during the day, the barrages of white, identical houses encircle each other in an ever-growing polygon. White to white, street to street, fence to fence. In front of each is an idle tree, waiting for something interesting to happen, just like us. No company awaits them, for all their friends are too far away to make conversation. Each driveway is cemented in a rectangular shape leading into another circle. We look for miles in one direction, and heaven meets the houses. On the other side, it is just the same. No wind feels motivated to run, no rain feels compelled to fall, and no human feels the need to interact with another. They all reside within their own identical homes. If humanity is meant to be so diverse and unique from itself, how are all these homes the same? How can these homes even be a home for one man and his ideas, his love, and his family if it belongs to the rest of the world and its disgusting habits? No neighbors wish to see one another, as no neighbor is different from one another. Each leaves to lose a piece of their soul every day at 9 AM and will return at 5 PM. 

We keep flying as 5 PM rolls around, and now one can claim this to be a way of life, even a crude one. White, silver, and black SUVs move for two feet, then stop for five minutes in the weight of traffic. HONK, HONK, HONK is the only life you can hear. Any blind man would hear this and think this was all humanity had to offer. This was the salvation that the human community, the human family, was waiting to claim. They waste their lives away from their houses, then fight their way every day to return to their house just to live the rest of their life in something claimed to be a home. But then, just before they reach what they thought was salvation, each white, silver, and black SUV turns around and goes back to where they came from. As it appears, their work was not done siphoning their lives away. The man above me reminds me that this was just the circle of life, and that’s just the way it is. But I can’t accept that, I can’t accept that these homes for all these families will be just as empty and lonely as the ocean, as dead and fake as the desert, and as conniving and malicious as the forest. From the view above, humanity appears to be just as weak and frail as ants. But, for their lives, they all deserve to find true penance. 

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Shane Cyriac is an aspiring pilot, hoping to travel the world and witness all the beauty the world has to offer, and the beauty humanity has to offer. Furthermore, he loves to write numerous short stories that he hopes to publish one day. The best part about being human, he says, is that there will always be beauty no matter where one goes, what one does, and who one finds.