Home used to be a place. It was a house situated within many, many others. Assembled in a city that is inevitably growing. Due to the increase of children within our minuscule household, we receded to a more remote environment. Now, our house is fixed in a rustic, peaceful community. I adore how each morning, the picturesque scenery lives softly outside my window, as the sun pierces through the darkness to wake up the earth another day. While miles, and miles, of endless space permits children to explore from early hours of the morning until last thing at night. The smell of country roads and fresh grass perfuming the air encourages me to walk for hours and take in every little detail that the world has to offer.
Despite that my house is somewhere I can go to create memories and be with my family. The word home, for me, is seen as more of a feeling than a place. Home is the feeling I get when I am at ease. It is the lift in my shoulders when my thoughts endeavour to weigh me down. It can be the familiar, like the outbreak of laughter that leaves cheeks gleaming with tears. Home is security, when I am held hostage in my own mind, I think of home and I am free.
It is more than just a building, or a group of loved ones. Home is the structure, the strength and the ability to pull together as one.