My Home

I always look forward to go home after a day's work. The thought of me shuffling between my studies and something being fried is a challenge - but yes, it gives me that sense of fulfillment in the end. Those hurried steps just to take an earlier train and the rush to surmount that flight of stairs to catch another train seems an ordeal. But once he grasped your hand or simply stare at you as alight in the lift, nothing beats the feeling of coming home.

 

Yes, I lived a happy life in his arms, though I may have scorned at him for some time, but at the end of the day, it is the love that...conquers all. I made him my life. He made me his trophy? Bliss is all that I can ever think of to describe the feeling when you cuddle each other in that small bed completely devoid of the world outside.

 

But, as reality bites, slaps and cuts, this home that I always look forward to is transformed into a cold, sordid structure. Nothing but those muted memories shared in its four corners will never remain as ubiquitous as the laughter we once share. I do not belong in that home. It is not my home, it was just a shelter for me. A shelter for the two souls who found each other and thought that love is everything in this world. But no, love does not exist in such shelters. It is a temporary shelter where love is meant to be consumed and then forgotten. A shelter where pain in fact exists in its ceilings, in its creaky hinges that continuously wail in every night.

 

This is not my home. It is someone else's home. But this is the same home where I found love, where I believed in love...But again, it belongs to someone else and I should find somewhere to shelter this love that I have.