My first step into the house, I knew I was at home. Paint brushes on the table, drawing on an easel, journals neatly stacked.

If those walls could talk they would tell stories about unfiltered verbal exchanges, enjoyable silence, and constant laughter.

After a while, that house didn’t feel like home anymore. The in and out made tracks on the floor that I couldn’t get rid of. The leaks in the ceiling outnumbered my pots and containers.

It took more time to leave than expected. Maybe because it was my first place and I didn’t want to give it away. Despite the fact that it was falling apart I was at peace.

From where I’m standing now, I am a long way from home. Not exactly sure where my next safe haven will be. Until then I’m enjoying the scenic route.