Home is a word that has changed more than any other in this particular stage of my life. Traveling for close to five months now, I have no proper place I can call mine at the end of a day. When strangers ask me where's home, I proudly say New York and think of my mamas warm curls brushing up against my face when she hugs me, and my brothers laugh. The incomparable comfort that my home in New York brings me.
Naturally, I fantasize about having my own apartment one day, and later my own big home somewhere in the mountains. I walk around shops and markets in these countries and imagine myself picking out trinkets and paintings that will bring life to this home, each a representation of where I've been.. the collection of my soul. I imagine a garden filled with my own fruits and veggies, and big windows that will bring in sunshine most days, and rainy greyness others.
Then I think about how my only possessions at this moment include whatever in on my back and in my suitcase. There are no walls that are mine, no floor, no windows, and no garden. Now, home feels like sitting on a boat, going from one island to the next. Home is sitting in the staircase of a hotel and writing. Home is a one hour flight. Home is exploring a new city, wide-eyed, with b. Home is even where I'm standing when I'm thirty feet in the air at the edge of a cliff, the wind softly encouraging me to jump, scared for my life. And it is still there when I left myself go completely over the edge into the water underneath me.
Though I still want to be (somewhat) settled one day, and nothing will compare to the love that holds my heart in New York.. now, I carry home with me - a state of being that is less the things that I fill in between walls, less about anything that surrounds me. It is the feeling of being home in my body.
buying roses from a young boy in Phuket, Thailand.
boat rides to the Phi Phi islands.
beautiful river homes in Malacca, Malaysia
floating river houses in Thailand.
cliff at Pulau Ubin Island in Singapore.