A Home of Memories

Memories are curious things, like your soul, like the earth, like the universe, they’re full of endless mystery no one can solve. Memories are my home, precious bricks of emotion that shape your resolve, your purpose of life. I think of my memories like people, like friends, they either make me maddeningly angry, sometimes miserable. But true memories stay with you through and through. Happy memories. True memories don’t condemn me for my mistakes, they embrace them as who I am, because that’s what home is. Whether they’re drenched with blue, clouds of gray, thundering with unsuppressed scarlet, or beaming with happiness, they can always be retrieved with a single object, person, or place that welcomes you into a world of remembrance. My home is my childhood, my present, my dreams that infinitely remind me of who I am. Whilst I might not remember them, I can always remember how they made me feel. My family is part of my home, just like how they’re part of my life. The memories with my family are a story of chaos, love, adorned with all the sunshine, raging firestorms, tsunamis of depression drawn on the walls of my home. My sister is my rival, someone to argue quite commonly with, and is also my sidekick when pranking. With my parents, there’s a bond between them that radiates love, pride and sometimes disappointment. A home is a house, but a house isn’t a home. My home changed from a townhouse to a house, but they’re still both my home. My townhouse was where I took my first steps, my first tricycle ride, lots of firsts. My house is where I improved, where I made the best memories. For some people, it's a condo, an apartment, a mansion, a tent, literal or figurative, but some people haven’t found theirs yet. I wish luck for people who haven’t found their home, no matter the situation, maybe they haven’t felt completely secure yet, or can’t afford them, but if the world creates enough good memories, I believe everyone can have a home.