mood: rather speechless
hooked on to: Vivo Sonhando by Astrud Gilberto

Today is a homie day.
I'm growing increasingly attached to my room as i hereby claim my little space in sheares hall D506. And so people question, how do you define home? To which i could only soak myself in one of those paradoxical yet somehow enlightening contemplative mood. In the figments of my imagination i put a right foot forward into my future and i see myself having a residence to call my own. And i thought, home that would surely be.

Yet, the idea of home being solely embodied in a clever or sophisticated physical arrangement of bricks and tiles does not quite convict. And so i pondered, is it the familiarity of the surroundings we have grown so used to that makes home so intriguingly intimate?

Then i thought, that if i could wake up every morning looking into the same deep eyes, enveloped in the familiar fuzzy warmth, the brush of his hand and lips, the same old poke and tickle, who cares if home is an igloo in the seclusion of North pole, a tree house atop the canopy of the Arizonian forest, or a nomadic tent on the Andalusian plains.

People struggle to conquer life, to swallow it whole in all its glory and complexity. To wriggle ourselves out of every single shithole we've inevitably fallen into as we cruise along our mortal journey, fair or foul. To understand certain things not meant to be comprehended by worldly wisdom. To seek comfort, rather forlornly, in attempting to justify our very own perspectives instead of lifting our hands in complete surrender and humility.

I closed my eyes, and in the comfort of the gentle Spirit residing within, i understood. That for as long as i carry His presence in every fibre of my being, as i give my life just like He gave His,
i'm home.
i always have been.

why don't you come back home?