home

home lies not in a person or a place or a thing; it lies in the love you give, in the different light you see things in, in the ways you appreciate things often overlooked upon. home is not the walls which surround you, not the ground you stand on, not the bed you cry yourself to sleep, not the living area where you smell your mother's baked cookies, not in the laugh of your dad which echoes in the entire house, not in the paintings and wallpapers; home is in the flesh which coves your bones, the blood which flows in your body, the lungs you fill air with, the heart it beats in; that's home. 

if one places their home in everyone but themselves, it might not always end well; because the idea of home is different for everyone. in the beginning, home to us is the home we grew up in, and if we place it in others; it can be toxic, chaotic, uncomfortable, vengeful and often hurt us in a way which deludes us into thinking it's the home we deserve, for its the only home known to us. 

home is what you make it. nothing is special, you make it special by giving it your love, by looking at it in a way noone else does, by taking care of it in a way noone ever would, by spreading warmth and bestowing kindness. everyone and everything are guests who come to you for shelter, to share your home with you, some stay, others leave and life? sometimes it's the warm winter sun which lights up your home and sometimes it's the storm you look out of the window wondering when it'll stop.