Home. A four-letter word that tortured me. I'd stay up all night thinking about Home. What is it like to have one? And why, why does everybody but me seem to have found their home? I used to daydream about having someone that I could do everything with, someone where every picture of us is a movie scene, where every conversation feels like it came out of a novel. I'd look at people and rate them according to their potential of becoming a home to me, then I'd feel frustrated when they don't. I'd spend nights aching with loneliness because I so desperately want to belong, I so desperately want that home that everyone writes about. Then I realized that home is not one place. It is not just one person. Hell, it doesn't even have to be a place or a person. It could be a moment of perfect harmony, a moment where you are completely and unapologetically
yourself. A moment where you are completely in love with life to the point that all its mess, all its flaws are the core of the beauty to you. And I knew that for me, I will always find bits of home in different people, different places, different moments. That the absolute, complete home is only within me, and within nature.