Home Is Where the Heart Is

I looked out of my window once more. The glistening blue of the ocean seemed to be calling my name, asking me to stay. The waves were rolling and washing up at shore. Everything I saw seemed to hold me back here. I rested my head on my seat and thoughts of everything I saw and experienced went to and fro in my mind. The tenderness of the sand, the rush of cold water cleansing my feet, the warm and welcoming smiles and most importantly, how I’ve never felt so alive before, truly conscious of my existence for what could be the first time.

But the city was calling my name and I had to go back to where my entire life is. Where I was going has to be home, even if I may not feel entirely alive, even if every move I make and everything I say is being judged. But still, that’s home, where I’ve built my entire life at, where people I can call friends would understand my musings, through every storm and every sunny day.

The plane started gaining speed and soon enough, I felt myself being airborne. I bade a silent farewell to where I’ve just been, for who knows when I’ll be back? My heart was sinking as I recall something someone said to me : “Home is where the heart is.”

Where I was going had to be home, but my heart wasn’t there. I may have an entire life where I’m heading, but I left my heart in the place I’d just left. Home is where the heart is… and so I’d just left home. I wasn’t going home, I was leaving home.

(Note : wrote this on the flight back home from Bali and yes, these are my own musings the entire day. I wrote this on paper with pen, my first ever manual writing experience that actually went well. This is also inspired by Joelle, I hope we’ll meet again someday.)


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