I just realized how, since I was a child, I had various places I called home.
I used to stay at different houses, borrow clothes from my aunts and cousins or from whomever I’d be staying with, had a lot of families scattered all around the Philippines. I enjoyed it. I felt adventurous. Little did I know that I was being prepared (by life? by fate, maybe?) to exist without a permanent home.
I live everywhere and yet, I live nowhere. I mark my territory by leaving something behind — books, clothes, perfume, shoes — anything that would make me feel like I belong there… that I belong somewhere. But no, it didn’t happen. Yes, I always had a place to stay, to eat, to rest, to spend the night, but I guess I was never truly home.
But then, I found it.
After years of wandering and knocking and looking for a permanent place to stay in, I found it. And it’s the loveliest place I’ve ever been. And it’s wonderful. It’s wonderful to finally belong somewhere.
I still spent days and nights at the streets, in a friend’s house, in a stranger’s den, in a cab, in malls, at parks, in convenience stores, in 24-hour restaurants and fast-food chains, in buses, at endless roads, and yet, I was always home. With a bottle of water in one hand and his hand on the other, I found my home.
Now, I realized that it doesnt really matter where I stay or where I don’t. Because I can spend my whole life looking for a house, but this man’s arms around me is what brings me home.