Everyone's talking about leaving, about leading new lives, about chasing new dreams.
Me? I already left.... 2 years and 8 months ago.

I left home without realising it. When you're not yet 18 and you're packing your precious things (a rosary for my bedside, colour pencils for my desk, a photo of my cousin and myself staring cheekily out of 5 year old faces) to be moved temporarily to a new room in a place you don't know yet, you don't realise that they'll never be returned to their old dusty spots in your home again... they'll always be in and out of suitcases, in different rooms and different places, and in 2 months time... different countries. They'll never come home.

And neither will I... I am home, yet I'm not home. This is not the same place that I left behind one cold January morning. This is not the room within which I built my cosy sanctuary, entertained my dreams or hid from the world. The walls have forgotten me. The floor feels cold and polite. I'm merely a guest... biding my time till I leave again. I don't really belong here anymore.

Then where do I belong?