Home if Where the Heart Is

Everytime I return home, I feel more and more removed. Almost like being a stranger in my own house.

Except I suppose I would no longer consider it my home of sorts.

Staying in Melbourne, having my own place, reminds me of how much I treasure that independence. Perhaps I am merely growing older, and the desire of branching out and making my own way through life has gripped me. Something so tangible I can almost taste it.

A place to call my own.

It doesn't help that I feel like I've outgrown this house. I no longer have a bedroom to call my own. No space for my things. It has moved on, like me, and it's rooms have been occupied by my sisters and cousins, and they have made it their own. Although I love this place, every so often I can't help longing for my apartment back in Melbourne, where I know where everything is, and how I've organised things the way I want them to be.

Or perhaps home is where the heart is, and at the moment my heart is very much with a certain person back in Melbourne.