One of the online dictionaries I found define home as the place in which one’s domestic affections are centered. True.

UAE has been my temporary home for twelve years now. I didn’t plan on staying here this long. I just let life happen. I’ve never been a fan of drawing timelines and long term plans for myself. Early on I had a feeling that winging it through life will help me get more out of it rather than marching through with an imaginary blueprint of how my life should be, and using it as a basis in figuring out the next path whenever a crossroad or a roundabout presents itself to me.

So far, this method worked well for me, happy and horrible life events both considered. But as I near towards my forties (scary typing that one out), I began to wonder where Home is.

Because I don’t seem to have one.  

I’m trying to understand if somehow this thought, which has a danger of turning into fear, can somehow transform into positive and exciting emotions.

Early on I thought happiness was a destination. And I am glad that somehow I realized that it isn’t. It’s a tool that one should acquire while walking or leaping through life.

So somehow I have achieved happiness. Somehow I’ve developed resilience. Somehow I have become aware of my strengths and my shortcomings. Nice.

But where is Home?

And most importantly, who is Home?

Every single day, I acknowledge that hollow spot inside me. Telling me it’s such a waste that I have so much love in me and I have no one to give it to. It’s almost a calling. A need.

I know love comes in many forms, and it can be given in so many ways.

But deep down I know I need a person. A mate. A partner.

I’m aware it’s not an essential component of my life. And certainly not the key to my happiness.

But is there anything better than loving and being loved in return?

I crave for that warm fuzzy feeling.

So where is Home?

And most importantly,

Who is Home?