Home. No, it isn’t the type of home you are thinking about; it’s not my parents’ home that I am talking about. I am talking about my own home, a place where I am the mistress, a place where I rush back to after a busy day at work or mop around on a lazy weekend afternoon. That is the home I am talking about- a place that belongs to me. Since I was a little girl, I had always envied people who bought houses for themselves, I would always wonder, “How would I decorate my own house? Oh! The amount of joy I would have, the thrill of building its interior all by myself, from choosing the colour of the walls to the furniture to the decorations!” Now I am older, I have entered my twenties but while my achievements begin to pile up, while I have someone I can call my own, the void in me gets larger. Deep inside, I know all these will come eventually and there is no need to rush but having stayed out in a hostel for 2 years, the loneliness in me gets worst. It isn’t the loneliness that can be filled in by anyone, but the loneliness where there is no physical place for you to fall on, the place where no one will berate you or judge you for stupid things that you do, quarrel with you because they can’t get your attention but a place where you are sheltered from the world, a place where you and the one you love can cuddle in bed and call it your own haven. Sometimes, I dread going back to the hostel; a place where I have no attachment to. I am merely a tenant who is there because it is convenient. As I age, I begin to crave for the simplest of things; for assurance, comfort, happiness and contentment. Yet, the simplest of things are often the hardest to achieve. So, I have decide to shift out of my hostel to go back to my parents’ home to stay; I do miss them a lot and being home on weekends means a lot to me. One day, I would be returning to a home where my soul rests in a place I can call my own.