letters of the fallen

A home doesn't jail. It opens portals that lead you to passion realms — those with lights that match the shades of the sun when it rises or when it kisses waters or when it meets the moon. Home smells like vine-wrapped benches and overlooking meadows, with tulips and lavenders atop rich earth. And it tastes like snowflakes on warm tongues that breathe love and speak love. For things. For skies. For paintbrushes and ink.

Home. What if it exists in masterpieces?

Slowly, home drifts from places into people, but is it right? Is it safe? Or is it just equally risky? A home must not be susceptible to change, sentimentality-wise, that even when time subsides, it still comforts you. It should be the space where you change and still be recognized. Where blooming is not strange. Where roots are grown deeper, unkept in a pot, but grounded in a forest, where gentle rain taps on your leaves, eternally.

How you live, and what you give life to: call that home.