It’s sunset. The sky has a pinky candy floss hue. Sheltered by the soaring mountains to my right and engulfed by the abyss of the Pacific Ocean in front of me, I feel safe. Despite hearing the sounds of dogs barking and cars in the distance, I cannot help but feel alone. Almost as if I were the only person to inhabit this corner of the world. Alone with these thoughts, I realise I am beginning to reach a level of comfort here, allowing me to accept certain thoughts and reject others.  

Comfort to me has always been synonymous with home. London is technically my “home” – I grew up there and have all my significant belongings there. Then again, I no longer relate to many of these material items. They are more like souvenirs of my younger self to me now. It’s funny that despite being 5,777 miles away from London, in a completely different time zone, with nothing but my 40L backpack and laptop, that I feel completely and utterly at home. 

They say that home is where the heart is, and I’m starting to think that it’s true. I truly believe that the corners of this world in which you truly belong will present themselves to you with a certain serendipitous magic that will leave you hungry for more. 

 I feel at home. This is my home.