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What comes to your mind when you think of home?

Some people believe home is where you live, others say it’s a state of mind, an emotion, or even a person and, I guess, they’re all right in one way or another.

To me, home is not the house I grew up and still live in, or the address where my letters are delivered to. In fact, it hasn’t been ever since I first came to England and knew that’s where I belong.

I still haven’t figured out what it is about this country that makes me feel so at ease whenever I come here. Maybe it’s the language, that seems to make it so much easier to express what I think and feel. Maybe it’s the amount of tea people drink, or how they can spend hours discussing the pronunciation of “scone”. Maybe it’s how they thank the driver when they get off the bus, or how they make exactly the kind of stupid jokes others usually never find funny when I tell them.
Or maybe the carrot cake they sell at Pret was just so good that it has altered my senses and that’s why I think everything here is so much more beautiful than where I come from.

I might never find out the reason why – and I’m sure there’s more than one anyways -, but as I’m sitting here in a tiny little park in Manchester, sipping on my coffee and eating the last bite of my cake while watching a squirrel hop around the bushes, I have an overwhelming feeling of being right where I should be.

To me, home is where I feel safe, but also alive. It’s where I can be the version of myself that I wish I always was, but am often to scared to be.
And hopefully, my home and the place where I live will be the same one day.

 

I wish I could live

Where my heart feels at home


I wish I wouldn’t have to choose 

Between the people I love 

And going my own way  

Between familiarity 

And the need to get away 

Between the safety of staying the same

And taking risks for a chance at a dream


I wish I wouldn’t have to choose

Between where I was born

And where I belong


I wish I could find

My place in the world

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