What does it mean to be yourself. Is it the material possessions that make you you? The items that surround you which tell a piece of your story. Or is it something more than that. Something more than materialistic. Something you can’t even put a price on. I’ve lived away for more than 3 and a half years. By the end of my time here it would have been 5 years, half a decade. And although I visit home time to time it never seems enough. In those 3 and a half years I’ve sort of lost my way. And although I’m slowly trying to find my way back, the only time I truly feel like I’ve found my way is when I am at home, surrounded by the ones I love. Somehow they hold the guiding light which I find myself so desperately looking for at times. All the times I’ve wanted to spread my wings and get away, and in every moment that I am away I know deep down inside I want to go back. Back to where my heart is, back to where my head is, back to where I should be, where I want to be. Because even I know that it’s the only place I can be me. Not the person I’ve evolved to, the person I’ve molded to but the person I always was, the person I want to be again. Something about going home somehow makes you get your head right, makes you remember the person you really are, the person you used to be. And with every moment fleeting I realise how important it is that you hold on to that person, that place, those people before you loose yourself entirely.
No comments:
Post a Comment