A Place Called Home
I had been living as a modern-age nomad since 1995. The day when I finished high school, as I stepped out from the comfort zone of my hometown, I knew that life is not going to be as easy as before.
Freedom that used to be a shackle with its keys guarded by my parents were then passed to me. I was on my own that day onwards.
But never in mind, I would have thought that I had to live from one rented room after another, sharing houses, apartments and flats with landlords, friends, strangers for the past 11 years; a period long enough to see Asian financial crisis, September 11, Afgan and Iraq wars, Tsunami, two general elections, jerebu (haze) once each year, friends getting married and having babies, one divorce case and the eldest daughter of a high school friend is now studying in primary school.
It is not that living in a rented place is no good. Things like you never have to worry about repainting your house, paying property tax and convervancy charges are good points, and you get to meet a lot of people too, good housemates like you, not so good ones and even some weird ones.
But since you don’t own the place, no matter how good the place is, it will never feel like a home. A place, where you can just come back from work, and shout “Honey, I’m back!”. And try to do that with your housemates around, see what you get.
A couple of days ago, the day before Chirstmas, after 16-hours packing non-stop and a mere 4 hours sleep, my wife and I moved to a place where we can finally call our home. A small flat, with one room booked for home office, open-concept kitchen, a small dining table, and a three-seater sofa. Nothing beats this feeling of having a home again after so long.
Now, I wish I can say “Honey, I’m back!” each day, but since I’m working from home, it seems like I’ll be the one hearing it from my wife more often. Either way, I’m glad that I finally find home again.
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