House vs. Home

I hate this place. The house is too messy. Its corners carry remnants of the past, heavy burdens that I can’t bear to throw out due to old yet diminishing value. The chaos is bundled into a small three bedroom house in the middle of no where. 

I love this place. Home consists of a loving family and a place to sleep, eat, and bathe. I love coming back and listening to my mother wash the dishes and my father watch television. The murmur of sounds and voices are a subtle reminder of the home that is still very much alive.

I hate this place. In the house, all I want to do is lie down on my bed and think about things. Things that are going wrong, like my brother’s hospitalization. Things in my life that I want but are far from reach, like employment after graduation. Things that need sacrifice and work, like happiness in the future. Things in the past that come back to visit. Things in the future that haunt me. Things, overthinking things, all in the space of this house, a subtle reminder that things are far from easy.

I love this place. Smells of lumpia and pancit linger in the air. Home is where the food is. It is comfort after a long day, a long week, a long quarter, a long year. Food and home fill my stomach with warmth and happiness.

I hate this place and I want to leave.

I love this place and I will come back.