Fellow writer from Latin America. I consider myself to be a dreamer to the core, even when, sometimes, my wings get too heavy to carry. I'm also romantic as hell, and a sucker for dogs.
Welcome, I guess.
I remember when I saw an actor, that had lived in many different places and cultures, being interviewed about the meaning of the word "Home". He said that, for him, home was Colombia, but his children thought that the world was their home: They were no longer habitants of a specific country, they belonged to the world.
I haven't lived in as many countries as them, but I've seen my fair share of what's beyond my countries borders for my young age. I've had many houses, and liked some more than others, but now, looking back, I don't see my home in them. For years, I felt a bit weird thinking I didn't had a place full of memories, just like the movies: a smudge of paint in a wall from when I was a kid, an old door with markings of my height through the years, or old friends in the neighborhood.
I always knew, thought: my family was my home. I don't know a place more loving or warm than laid down in bed, in the middle of my parents, watching a good movie and hearing them laugh once in a while for something someone said. For me, is the most comforting sound. Home is hugging my dog after a long, hard day, or brushing my cousin's hair, just because she loves it and I feel like doing it. Home is, and always will be, giving my grandmother a kiss on the hair, and watching shows with her on Saturday night, holding my mother's hand and sitting down to have some hot chocolate and talk about life. Home is, just like they say, what you make it to be: It doesn't truly matter the country, or city, I'm doing this things.
They see me as home, too, and their loved one, but they also feel that their home countries and towns are part of it. And, although I've always respected that, I'd never understood why. I love it, of course I do, I adore our people and almost everything that comes with them, and I even love my little home town, a place I've hated for days on a row, and the mountains that I know will be there every time I look up. But I didn't knew why it has never meant for me what it does to others, until I saw that interview: I am, too, a habitant of the world.
My mind longs to be in a foreign place, to see and feel and smell and know different things. It longs to be in the middle of Times Square, to learn history in Greece and Egypt, to taste food in India, to dance till sunrise in Ibiza, get mesmerized by the architecture in Prague and practice Portuguese in Lisboa . It wants to live in so many places, learn so many things, so I can belong, too, everywhere I nowhere at the same time.
It sounds scary, and It was for a while , but I'm not scared, not anymore, because I've learned something trough the years, with the help of my loved ones and the experiences and trips of others that feel the same way as I do: I know that my home is not place, but the people that made me who I am, that love. Now i know that, not matter what, I'll always carry home with me, and couldn't be more grateful for that.