(WARNING: The following piece of writing is sandwiched between the complete overhaul of my sleep cycle and a term paper deadline. Misspellings are due to the author having to write through a veritable waterfall of tears.)

First of all, I found that I may not be entirely alone when it comes to being confused about where home is meant to be. It seems to be a pretty common thing, especially among those who have had to relocate several times. It is pretty difficult to get a sense of home when you keep having to pack it up for a new one. Though yes, there are people who can say they’ve lived in the same place all their lives, ours is a fairly nomadic group and we’re familiar with feeling ill at ease in a location we’re meant to live in, even though our feelings may later change. There’s a sense that to many of us, home is a place we’re trying to find, realize we’ve found just as we’re meant to leave it, or never even realized we’d found until much later.

Overall, though, there’s a sense that home is tied to a feeling, be it of comfort, belonging, or so on. You could technically live in a place and still yearn for home elsewhere. If it’s tied to people, that covers the feeling of belonging. If it’s memories, maybe comfort. Sometimes it’s even tied to things like food. In any case, home is less about, say, a house than our feelings toward that house.