Home is not the city you were born in,
Not the building that withstood your childhood,
Not the room in which you first slept alone
Nor the one you first shared with someone else.
It is not the place you lived in longest,
Nor the one you lived in last,
In fact it is not a place at all.
It is not fixed, not stationary,
It does not lie waiting
In the state in which you left it,
Home is fluid, ever moving
It slips through your fingers if you grasp at it,
Evades your touch, for it does not exist
As an external entity,
But dwells within us
Waiting to awakened by
The laughter of an old friend,
The smell of mum’s cooking,
The sound of that song your uncle
Though you never knew its name.
Home is a feeling.
That warm, soothing glow
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