"No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old familiar pillow."
- Lin Yutang
Somehow, these words fit me well yet seem like strangers to me.
I guess it's always good to be back home, to sleep in your own bed, to hear your mother tongue. It has always been that way. However now, it all seems boring, and it feels like nothing in my room is really mine. It's not my city anymore, it's not the blue sky I remember seeing through the airplane window.
People say home is where your heart is. Mine is somewhere, across three tropics, a rainforest and innumerous islands. My heart is in pieces, that are scattered on every sidewalk I walked, every gift shop in every hotel lobby and museum I entered, every airport I felt anxious at. These pieces are at the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the American Museum of Natural History's gift shop and Fort Worth International Airport.
Home is that feeling I get when we land in a foreign country, that feeling I can't stop having, of belonging there even though I just don't. The feeling of endless happiness, excitement, of looking forward to every little or great adventure to be.
My heart is in every line of every music, every movie and every book about the places I've been to, the places I visited. My heart's with 'I left my heart in San Francisco', with 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' and even with 'Divergent'. Its pieces are even in places I've never seen, but dream to someday see. The fragments of my heart are with 'Midnight in Paris' and in every Ed Sheeran's song. They're near Parthenon, and Venice's Canals.
My heart is not here anymore. My heart's in Washington, Boston, Monterey and in Chicago. It's in New Orleans, Barcelona, Munich, Marrakesh, Santorini and Sidney. It's everywhere. And nowhere around here. It's not in my chest anymore, and it hurts. It hurts not to be where my heart is.