Baskets of flowers, my favourite books, the sunglasses I like the most – these sorts of things feel like home to me. I cling to the tiny things that evoke familiarity for me, I rarely find it in anywhere big like the city I live in or even this blogging job I have. I’ve lived outside of my birth country since I was 8 years old and since then, I’ve roamed around, enjoying cities enough to call them my own but certainly not home. My job is different everyday and within an industry that I see spiraling out of control, I’m not sure where I stand exactly. I’ve never been sure, and this uncertainty is ironically, the familiarity of my life. I’m not complaining, undeniably it keeps life interesting and I’ve always aimed for a varied life. But we all need the constants in life, albeit big or small, we all seek them. Mine are relatively simple. Simplicity among the jumble that are the days that cluster into years and at 26 here I am looking back already on a life so full, so wild, so ever-changing. But as long as the books I love are on a shelf or in a suitcase nearby and there are flowers to buy (and perhaps wifi) – then all is just fine, I don’t need home, just this life I am slowly calling my own.