In times of yore, I used to fall for the idea of wanderlust. Stations moving behind night train window, eyes of spouses longing for immediate arrival in every corner of the airport, the smell of salty water slowly vanished within merchants’ old-fashioned perfume scent on cruises—all of them were all the kind of constancy that I kept witnessing each time. And I felt good, as well as alive. It was as if the entire humankind was within my neighbourhood and that all voyages were just routines that kept me sane. It was as if I never befriended the word “hometown,” or “settlement,” or “stay,” not even a chance to know the meaning of.

But now, that look you’re wearing. That distant laughter that teases me to stay awake when I am in the wee small hours watching outlandish cityscape of unfamiliar citizens’. Those pale nail colours I peculiarly could memorize which I desire to caress soon. The whiff of typical warm air which we breathed in and out together when we walked side by side down the alleyways of a city we were born in.

I might now,

have fallen for the idea of stopping myself from going. To, instead, be home,

to only sit and

settle down.

In times of yore, I’d be thousands of miles away from everyone I knew and still be safe and sound.

But in the long run, home sounds just nice.


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