Home is... leaving at the eleventh hour, arriving twelve hours later, with only three hours of uncomfortable sleep, to be welcomed by familiar arms, butts, and faces. It's that almost forgotten feeling of not being constantly surrounded by strangers for whom your existence doesn't matter much at all. Home is remembering who you are, where you come from, grounding you to a reality that you seem to have removed from the now empty corners of your mind. It's your heart smiling for no apparent reason, the warm love received unconditionally without you having to beg for it, look for it, pay for it, in a place that is not only cold because of the weather (pinch of salt). Home is not having to eat leftover dinner by yourself, but rather being surrounded by loud, no longer annoying, voices. It's the (yes) sun raining all over your bleached body, the sea spraying salt all over your bare feet, the appetiser to a flirty summer, knowing very well there will be no main course. Home is the pause button to a life that seems to be stuck on fast forward. It's a bonsai of mixed raw emotions, fully grown and nurtured, while you try to hold on to something that has always been there and will still be there when you're gone. Home is them knowing what you want, who you are, and loving you anyway, even though doing so breaks their beautiful hearts into tiny hardbound pieces. Home is a swimming pool of memories, staying afloat if and only if you want them to. Home is a feeling and this was my failed attempt at trying to define it.