Six thirty of the sixth of eleven; Losing Home

There is a lot of similarities between a house and a home. Both can shelter you. Both cannot stand without a solid structure. Both can crumble from a massive blow of destruction.

A biological family doesn’t equate to a home, as much as people without a thread of blood connection with you can be considered as one. It isn’t based on anything biological, or legitimacy, but with how you feel when you’re with the person, or a group of people.

But as much as you consider a person as your home, it also has the potential of leaving. And people may tell you that home is the only thing you’ll always have, but maybe they’re wrong.

Maybe home was never meant to stay. Maybe home can become something you can never get a hold of.

The familiarity of gaining and losing people throughout the years have already become odd and has lost its sense of surprise. I may also soon find no better reason for crying that I would just lose the ability of doing so.

But when a person becomes your home or a part of it, and when they finally decide to leave, you’re suddenly faced with the pain that you thought would hurt the same as before, but would turn out as something that cuts you a little deeper every time.

You don’t get to choose anything.

You face everyone who’s meant to come into your life.

You face having them around.

You face feeling home in them.

You face losing them.

And you face losing a part of you with each person who has built your home, and would eventually leave it falling apart.

 

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