I have spent my whole life as a gypsy, I have had more homes than hearts, and yet the clearest image to me is that a house isn’t a home- it’s a feeling. A giddy, but safe feeling that courses through your chest and your bones, when you’re at ease and peace. Home is the seaside towns I miss, the salty hiss of the damp air channelling through my ears, sweeping against my skin and grounding me to peace. Home is the warm, heart pound when you realise that you could be anywhere on this planet but with that one person, and you’d still feel like you belonged and desired nothing more.
Moving on in my life is starting to become less daunting when I realise that it doesn’t matter where or what I live in, I can still find peace. We are all forever rising like a lotus flower, the muddy waters can cover and shield our judgement, but it’s not an eternal path.
