Home is where all wishes are born and dreams are dreamt. Home is where heaping plates of food make stomachs contempt.
Home is where I can ignore the social pressure the world seems so desperate to follow, the different versions of myself I made just to fit in to every little trend and appear normal. Home is where I can finally remember that there really is only one me, one without pretend or being formal.
Home is of laughing voices and dancing feet. Home is of floating music that never strays from the beat.
Home is peeling back the well-guarded onion, layer by layer, feeling no worries about how to fit in. Home is not caring of social pressures, be it short or tall, ugly or cute, fat or thin.
Home is of the melting sun and the drip drip drip of sweating popsicles. Home is of frozen breaths and snowy driveways lined with shiny icicles.
Home is of comfort, of peace, of familiar, of free. Home is of siblings, of pets, of parents, of truly me.
Home is of miles and miles of imagination no eye can see. Home is of tears that carry no embarrassment, of kindness that brings no fee.
Home is just a plain, old house – no castles or mansions or princes await. Home is but instead filled with more riches; not in money, not in gold, but in love flooding past every metaphorical gate.
Home is of breaking rules and discovering there really weren’t any. Home is of knowing you’ll always come back, even if the years become many.