There comes a point in everyone’s life (I hope) when they move out of their parents’ house, the place they grew up in. At least that is what happens in the majority of people my age who lived in a small city other than Athens and Thessaloniki. Moving out was an exciting process and a slightly terrifying one as well. Almost two years later, I can tell that I’ve gotten to know myself much better than I have ever thought. It’s kind of inevitable; you get to hear your thoughts a lot more than you normally would.
The first few months after moving out, the first year probably, made it very clear that the city I grew up in was no longer my home. I wasn’t living there anymore, all my friends were gone and my school was in Athens. What really kept me emotionally attached was my family that still lived there. Athens wasn’t my home either. I had a few friends and relatives and I loved the city. But that wasn’t going to cut it, at least for the first few months. Such a strange phase. Time passed and I felt more and more comfortable in this new environment. Two years later Athens has started to feel like home. However, this transition taught me that home is not always the place you live.
Home doesn’t have to be a house or a building. What makes a place home for me is the people. The love. Home is a warm blanket on a cold winter night. A cold shower during the summer. Having your close friends over after a long day. Reading your favourite book or listening to Frank Sinatra. A hot cut of tea and a bowl of porridge. It’s where you can bust your crazy dance moves without a care in the world. Home is a hug and a smile. Your sister’s laughter and your mom’s food; your father’s sense of humour and your best friend’s meaningfull wink. You can find your home anywhere. Because it’s more of a feeling than a fancy penthouse.
Have have you dealt with this? What makes you feel like home?
Can’t wait to read your replies.
See you next time,
Kleanthi
theartstories.blog 