By the time I turned 18, I had lived in 3 different provinces, 6 different cities, gone to 6 different schools, and occupied more than 7 houses.
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The other day, I was asked for directions on campus twice and I knew the answer both times.
I hold my home in my turtle shell.
The whir of a tattoo machine is a homecoming, now — and each tattoo is a pillar of what makes me, me.
There are no consequences to being emotional, upset, angry, vulnerable in my home.
Home use to be a place that once I entered through the door, all worries about school and people slipped off my body like raindrops on Gore-Tex.
Google Maps is quite the tool. Just last week I perused my childhood home noting it was bluer than it’d been.
Home takes time to build and rebuild, to find and to treasure, to believe and then to feel.
I’m home now, I wasn’t before.
My job is not to teach you how to be a house guest.
A few short weeks before my graduation in May 2016, the wind started blowing a little harder in a different direction, and twenty-foot flames started eating up my town. Trees burned, gas stations exploded, and 70,000 people clamoured to get away.
I am made among these peaks.
It would be too easy to be uprooted by the mishaps of life if I wasn’t constantly surrounded by an inspiring environment or a place where I felt belonging.
how can I daydream about a place that is real.
I once wished to soak the walls of my home.