being homesick is strange for someone who feels they don’t really have a home.

that’s not true. i many homes. the camp i worked at. most of the little houses i have lived in. the graffiti of a masked man on a wooden fence behind the high school i went to.

my friends are my home. songs are my home. and yes, places are my home too.

i am so homesick it hurts. its the most beautiful type of pain,though, because it means, if only for a fleeting moment, i belonged somewhere.


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