what is home?
according to the dictionary, a home is a house, apartment, etc. where you live. so it’s a place. a building with a roof, where you and a few other people live together. where you spend your mornings waking up and your nights sleeping. if that’s the case, then shouldn’t the question be changed to ‘where is home’?
i have a home. a cream two storey building with a big black gate and empty lands on either side of it. once upon a time, it was lovely there. far from the road, from the vehicles, and from the noises. love and laughter were shared. cooking, baking, singing, playing, everything felt so normal, so perfect. it was a place of safety, security, comfort.
but then the laughter turned into silence. the love turned into tears. the cooking, the baking, the singing, it all became a long-distance memory. the five were still five, that hasn’t changed. but why does it feel so different? why don’t those things exist anymore? where did it go wrong? what happened? is it not a home anymore? where is home?
it turns out the definition is wrong. home isn’t a place, far from it actually. home isn’t walls with a roof. home is the food you make, the cookies you bake, the songs you sing, the guitar you play, the annoying habits you make. home is being yelled at for waking up too late and sitting together in the living room to talk about politics. you can’t attempt to make a home, no matter how hard you try; a home is created by itself.
and nothing feels like home now,
because home is you.