Looking out the window of the hospital room and munching on egg Parantha and pickles, I think to myself - what is home? Different people have different perspectives and mine is probably the same as many others out there. Home is familiarity, home is safety, home is love and protection. But what if your Home is constantly tumbling and falling and resurrecting like a phoenix out of the ashes? Home is stability, home is trust. But my Home.. my Home is more of a wreck. Every night my body aches with this odd sort of uneasiness. Like a part of me wants to escape. I know where it wants to go.. I do. But reaching that destination and finding a place to stay is a far fetched thought. You see, my Home is found in the most unstable of places. In my broken relationships, in my search for myself, in my lack of true friendship and in my uncertainties. My Home is not home at all, if we go by the dictionary. Funny thing is, my Home and I.. our feelings aren’t mutual for each other. It rejects me...