Yeah maybe, but home can be nice too. Home is mama showering me with attention and making all the best food. Home is sibling banter and wasting each other’s time even when we all have exams on Monday. Home is parents worrying I don’t get enough exercise and forcing me to go on bike rides I actually end up enjoying. Home is hot soup that didn’t come out of a satchet. Home is warm showers and heaters and extra blankets. It is pieces of cake stashed in the freezer, because if anyone brings cake over, mama has to save me a piece. Home is an attached bathroom. Home is having a room all to myself and still not being alone. Home is putting out a pile of clothes and have them freshly washed the next day. Home is me complaining how behind I am on everything and parents complaining that I don’t study enough. Home is me announcing that I’m out of cash again. Home is empty Nutella jars waiting for me to lick them clean.

~ About that time I wrote something I ended up quite liking, while I was half asleep.


I cosied up in bed sleepily after praying Fajr. I checked my phone and twitter out of habit. I had a message from a friend asking why I went home every weekend (I WISH) when hostel weekends are so fun. The above passage is what I typed out, but before sending it, I copy-pasted it elsewhere, and sent a normal length text.


I Would

I’d show you my scars, but they’re too well hidden,

I’d show you my laugh, but I’ve made it too common.

I’d paint with my words, it’s pencils that fail me,

I’d sing to the deaf, at the top of my voice.


I’d be broken and torn, if I wasn’t so stubborn,

I’d be in danger or more, if I wasn’t so scared.

I’d live more and yet less, in this temporary web,

I’d see colors of light, refracted through tears.


I’d break through the walls, if I hadn’t worked hard to build them,

I’d fail to be strong, because I often do.

I’d ask for you too, if I was someone different,

I’d give you myself, if I was that weak.


And I’d tell you the truth, if I was sure I knew it,

I’d give you the answers, if I knew what they were.

I’d tell you my tale, if I knew how to spin it,

I’d open my soul, if I hadn’t lost the key.