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Home is like a river…
He is a creature dying of thirst. In the river he is welcome when he can bear the thirst no longer. The river provides, soothes his aches and pains, draws him in.
Home is like a river…
He is a leaf in the stream, floating along, dragged by the current, sometimes slow and steady, other times turbulent and perilous, drifting in the centre, wallowing in its pools, slipping between the rocks that mark the river's bed.
Home is like a river…
They are the waters that drag him along, carry him, keep him.
He is a fish, subject to their flow but not powerless to resist. Sometimes he is a salmon, swimming upstream, fighting their hold on him with all his might.
And yet the water sustains him. Without it he is stranded, lost, alone.
Home is like a river…
He is a drowning man, being pulled with the current struggling to surface and catch his breath. Though his limbs are leaden and the rapids threaten to pull him back he drags himself to shore. He is tired, drained. He longs for the desert, despises the water, fears its power over him.
Home is like a river…
He is a boat drawn by the flowing waters. Sometimes he must leave the river, his cargo too heavy to make it through the shallows. But the river always calls him back and welcomes him with gurgling laughter and promises of thrilling rapids, when he feels light again.
Home is like a river, constant yet never the same.