What do you think it's home to you?
I've been thinking about this for a while. It's more than a year that I am away from my family, living on my own miles away from what I called home for so many years, without even thinking about the meaning of the word.
Yesterday I felt like home in this room of mine. Rain ticking on the window, lying on my bed, under the sheets and a cover, or sitting at this tiny little desk, with new music in the speakers.
Home is where there is nothing scary.
Home is where you feel at ease.
Home is where you can feel sick and do it without worry.
Home is where you know everything.
Home is when you want to know more than that.
Home is when you want to go away.
Home is when you need something else.
Home is when you could go somewhere else but leave pieces of you behind.
Home is where there is someone to water your plants for a week.
Home is when you can go away and go back.
Home is where you can hurt and don't feel bad.
And I have this weird tendency that makes me want to leave when I've found it.
Could it be I'm a gipsy as they said.
I wish I didn't choose a piano to play. It would be so much easier to go around the world with a little bag and a Ukulele.
And have the sky as my roof and the grass as my bed. And strangers as my friends.
I'd like to have a home around me, the biggest, most beautiful, shared home. Where everybody is welcome.
Let's have a cup of passion fruit tea in the woods.