stepping through the lonely streets of the night,
with only the warm, yellow light of the streetlights
keeping me company, there is only one direction to head.
How often may every human observe miniscule events? How often might even hindsight oppose mindset's eclipse?
still, I walk the streets and venture deep into what I believe.
Has anyone truly found their place in the world?
How?
How did they achieve a stable point they get to call,
"home"?
Humans, eternally condemned to transience, transferring
happy moments to beholden memoirs,
holding them close to heart-
Only rarely I think of this. It's a thing we take for granted, I
observe… something to notice the absence of
only when it's no longer with us.
Obituaries come closer, yet answers remain
obscured-
Of all the things to pester me today,
one that I know where it lies chooses me for its
Orpheus.
My world remains transient, leaving short traces behind.
Many times I remind
myself that I am still in my youth, with barely
minimal experience. Yet I've hammered thoughts into my
mind that just
might,
maybe, prove themselves wrong. I'm not educated in philosophy, but-
My home, and that of
many others, does not exist… stagnant.
My home is the paths I take, the routes I follow, the
marks I leave, the friends I
meet, the experiences. The experiences I eat, drink, breathe and live with all
my being.
Every time I visit my grandparents,
every time I choose to write,
every hike, every climb, every trip and every single challenge I surmount.
Everything builds my world. And my world is my home.
Envious individuals may try to reject it, but it is mine.
Eventually, it turns unmoving – a center of all
everythings that I've
engaged in. Yet still, it grows. I leave it at times, just to find it larger upon my return.
home is not a place – it is what you make of yourself.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC
stepping through the lonely streets of the night,
with only the warm, yellow light of the streetlights
keeping me company, there is only one direction to head.
How often may every human observe miniscule events? How often might even hindsight oppose mindset's eclipse?
still, I walk the streets and venture deep into what I believe.
Has anyone truly found their place in the world?
How?
How did they achieve a stable point they get to call,
"home"?
Humans, eternally condemned to transience, transferring
happy moments to beholden memoirs,
holding them close to heart-
Only rarely I think of this. It's a thing we take for granted, I
observe… something to notice the absence of
only when it's no longer with us.
Obituaries come closer, yet answers remain
obscured-
Of all the things to pester me today,
one that I know where it lies chooses me for its
Orpheus.
My world remains transient, leaving short traces behind.
Many times I remind
myself that I am still in my youth, with barely
minimal experience. Yet I've hammered thoughts into my
mind that just
might,
maybe, prove themselves wrong. I'm not educated in philosophy, but-
My home, and that of
many others, does not exist… stagnant.
My home is the paths I take, the routes I follow, the
marks I leave, the friends I
meet, the experiences. The experiences I eat, drink, breathe and live with all
my being.
Every time I visit my grandparents,
every time I choose to write,
every hike, every climb, every trip and every single challenge I surmount.
Everything builds my world. And my world is my home.
Envious individuals may try to reject it, but it is mine.
Eventually, it turns unmoving – a center of all
everythings that I've
engaged in. Yet still, it grows. I leave it at times, just to find it larger upon my return.
home is not a place – it is what you make of yourself.
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