About missing home.

I thought i wouldn't. But here i am. Thinking bout the green green grass of home, strumming my ukulele and blowing my harmonica. You know like how the greatest of dams could be fell by the smallest of holes. The waves of emo could be triggered by the smallest means, by the smallest familiar scent of home, which did not came from home at all. Or by the striking of a mis-played chord, the same one I played lying on my queen sized bed, staring at my unevenly painted green walls. Or the wind hitting me at a specific angle and speed, fooling my nerves into believing i was on my couch once more, reading a book or listening to a song. And sometimes, it need no trigger at all. Just suddenly from the back of your brain, Mr Wong-Inside says Hi.

And then you think about home. About whether your walls are still green. If the carpet you wanted for your room is already in your room. Whether dust has been collecting on your books, or your bed. Or did your parents white sheet everything, as though you no longer belonged to this world. And did they lock the door, maybe to spare themselves the thought of you being overseas, and if they did, would it be forever? And if they didn't, is it now a guest room, open for all walks of life to rest in, to flip through your carefully sorted by author and alphebet books, or your closet, and all the bones you hide in it. And will they sweep under the bed and the table, to find pieces of you left behind, pieces you don't even notice you've left behind.

And then you think more about home and the people. What did they cook yesterday? Is it vegetarian? What happened to the colour lights of the living room, or the computer to which you hold the master password. And the kitchen, and that all so familiar sight of mum, and that all so wonderful scent of vegetables frying in a pan, or soup in a pot, or cake in the stove. And then you think about the food you're having here, and suddenly everything seems too salty, or too oily, or too bland, or too tasteful, or tasteless, or sweet, or sour. And Someone cooked you what you want, and you still feel something's missing though you can't tell what. And then the piano, do your sister still play it, that loud annoying song that rings through the whole house. And is that player on the altar still working, do it still play? And do we still have sports on TV when i return? If i return.

And you think outside your home. Is that tree still there, or that empty field, have they started building something there. And your friends, do they still hang out at the same places, is the macs still 24/7. Do they still get the front 4 rows seats in the cinema, and who gets the spoilt com during LAN now? or do they LAN at all.

And then you think. and you think. and you think.

And you say damn.
I'm not supposed to be missing home at all.

And you shrug.
And say 'Oh wells'

And life goes on.

Till nxt time.