A place where a family sits happily at the dinner table talking about how their day went under a roof and sleeping in comfy beds with expectations for morrow and pancakes for breakfast?
A building made with bricks painted with the most prettiest colours with memories hanging everywhere you go and touch?
Or is it people who you spend life with sharing those memories and probably bathroom and beds and emergency clothing fix, ones who know you inside out?
Under these crumbling walls and choking smokes and screams at those running bullets and we're looking back running wishing we had taken things that mattered to us. A picture of a mom, a teddy, a letter from a best friend, a pendant from a father, your brother's favourite shirt and unfortunately, sometimes family.
Nearing the border beyond where the sun shines differently and fate awaits us with unknown circumstances. This part of the map oblivious to us. The only thing we remember are those left behind, part of us left behind and memories left behind.
Home isn't a place you find on the map or a building made with the finest hands.
Home is us. You and I. All together. Home is us. Whole or part. Home is us. Wherever.
I might have lost everything I ever had, live under discrimination from here on out and be less than what I used to be, but I am home when I am with family. Dead or alive. Here or not.
Home is where the heart is and I believe this with all of me.
The Aegean sea remained tight-lipped of our escapades. Accelerating heartbeats on its shoreline succumbed to the waves that inched closer to our skin. Somewhere, somewhere in this moment of time in another part of the universe is you.
You, you are not mere flesh.You're not just one too many breaths that sighed at the truth of our fate. You're magic, you're an illusion I fell for so deeply that it hurt each time I looked up at the shy sky that hid behind weeping clouds. On the autumn equinox, you were flipping through pages of an old photo album, rather too fondly for the way you left.
We're empty people yearning to be complete by asking for helping hands or complete people wanting to empty out our pots filled to the brim for thirsty strangers.
We're born empty, we die empty, and that makes us a vessel to fill, to sustain, to survive so that rains and droughts alike nothing wets or evaporates the sustained happiness.
Life's a well of wishes and we a bucket to be hauled up, to give them shape to shape us, some good, some bad, some a burden, some necessity, some obvious, some oblivious.
Many a time, it seems a chore, filling and emptying, carefully stacking up glasses yet we're old bottles in disguise with contents spilling out, what we simply just need is to find people, places, things or emotions.