A reflection by a lost lady from Sweden who knows exactly how to define home.
I have woken up 10,000 meters away from earth and close to brightly shining stars and with neck pains caused by cheap airplane seats. I have seen sunrises and sunsets turning clouds and horizons, cities and continents, into the colors pink and purple and beyond a recognizable state with millions of sparkling lights directed up towards me, endless of times. This is one reward to the hazards of crying from stress at connection flights and enduring long international waiting lines.
“Why?” One might wonder. Why flee from a habitat and a nest of safety and home, where you know exactly in which section of the grocery store you can find the milk? Why go through the burden of fright in wondering if you misplaced your passport into the wrong bag or if this time it is real- you have lost the one proof of you being you while you were busy fueling up with Starbucks coffee at the airport?
My answer is simple.
My home has never been a nest of safety, and even if I may love milk, I do not think I could be able to bother less if it would turn out to not be sold in a single grocery store in my new home. And even if all those colors and crusts on the outside of your passport, not to mention the stamps and wrinkles inside of it, would define you as you, I would not be too worried about losing it.
Somebody wise once said, “the journey is home.”
And I do not want to spoil where I live, but I think you know exactly where my home is.