This was written by one of my classmates. I thought it was beautiful.
Homesickness has little to do with home and everything to do with love.
When I am not happily in love I long for home where love waits hanging
on tree branches outside the house, and seeped into furniture fabric and the fuzz and fur of old blankets and missed pets. Sitting silently in memory and invisible to eyes that behold it in person, the home love is ideal.
It does not hurt or ask questions and it is forever steadfast; held eternally, and holding you back, in the mind’s eye. That’s why it’s so easy to leave it for the tangible brand of love, the kind you can touch without a twinge of sadness,
because you’re not sick for the old love
and the new love won’t make you sick, yet.