This is almost like coming home.
I get out of the car, look up my own house and smile a big sigh of relief.
Where did I go? I missed this place! What have I done?
It’s been a while since I walked past the small corridors and confined spaces of what I call home. That nostalgic smell of a breezy summer afternoon; that old rusty chimes chiming in my old dusty bedroom. It’s all the same like everything was untouched. And it seems to me that nothing much has changed except the person in the mirror staring back at me from that antique wooden-closet.
I came back.
And it feels like coming home.
I’ve been all around the world of my renewed social life. I’ve found what I’ve been searching for. I’ve seen what I’ve been longing to see, felt what I’ve been longing to feel. I got more than I expected. I got poisoned and died, I got drunk and fried, I got caught in the middle of suicide. And after all of this, I’m still bound home.
I’ve been to Crazy Street and Wild Highway, met the hassle and the bustle of Bullshit City. I’ve had fun running around the fire and floating up the sky. I shattered cracks and smashed rocks. I got damaged, I got spoiled, I got more than what I expected. I sinned and cried, I laughed and then tried. But at the end of the day, I’m coming home.
“When my friends are gone, when the party’s over, we will still belong to each other.”
