I’m back in Singapore for a couple of weeks for an impromptu trip and it feels strange being back at my home.
But then again, perhaps I should say this was my home? I have a new home now in Japan. I gave thought to, pondered and deliberated over, researched and shopped for every. single. item in the house.
The design, the cost, the placement. Everything. We built almost all furniture in the house by hand, using a manual screwdriver. We forgot about the existence of the electric screwdriver until too late.
In short, it’s the one I poured all my love into building, with my love.
Now, back in the house I spent half my life in, I feel quite out of place.
I no longer have my room, my things from my former room are divided and spread out over several places around the house, from the storeroom to the balcony (!!). I don’t have my bed, pillow or bolster – so basic yet so essential. I am living not by my own rules (and I can assure you I have very particular habits I am battling in suppressing).
Yet there are also fond things that have not changed. My mom’s awesome cooking, my dad’s fengshui quirks, my sister’s habit of eating with her designated plate and cutlery…
I feel like a stranger in a familiar place.
What makes a home, a home?
If it’s like what they say, “Home is where the heart is”, then perhaps I have, after all, two homes?
Ok. I’m just rattling on and on here whatever comes to mind. I’m meeting BFF at 4am and it’s 1.20am now. I still can’t decide if I should sleep or stay awake. I can’t sleep now, but I have a long day ahead tomorrow.
-_-
