Home.
I stood before the Blake Mansion. Dreading to mount the stairs. This wasn't home. In fact I don't even think I have a home anymore. The one I knew had been lost and since then, one could practically say, I'm homeless.
Home, a place where we can unapologetically be ourselves. A space where we know safety.
But there have been arguments, some say a home is not a place, that it's the people making up the place. Others say it's just one person, one person that we truly feel safe with. That one person who accepts us and we are not afraid of being ourselves around. And there are those who believe it's truly a place. A place where memories are made, a space where love and happiness are the walls.
For me, home could be any of these things, and to be honest I don't really care. Why should I when the place I live now is none of these things. The Blake Mansion wasn't a home in any way.
