Home

When you were still a kid and you scraped your knees from running around, or fell down while trying to see how long you can keep spinning, you ran home and let your mother nurse your wounds. When you broke your toy, you brought it home to your father to have it fixed. No matter what happened, you knew that things would be fine once you got home. You knew that once you walked in through the door, you were safe.

The years passed. You ventured to new places and started living away from your family. You let more people in your life and they became part of your home. You realized that home did not have the walls and doors that you thought it had.

Then you met someone. Someone who gave your life new colors. Someone who gave you new reasons to live. Someone who made you feel happy and safe. Then you realized home has changed yet again. That person has become your home.

But something happened and once again, you find yourself wounded. You try to run home. But you remember that your home is the exact same thing that you are trying to run away from. Defeated, you stop running. You look longingly at what used to be your home and pray for the healing to begin. It doesn’t.


Drinking night with fellow heartbroken housemate. Last shot of Tanduay White. Cheers.