The idea of home is kind of elusive to me. Where is home?
Home for me at this minute (although I’m not sure I’m ready to call it ‘home’) is a flat above a row of shops in an inner city suburb of Auckland that is squished between the train line and a main road. It contrasts with the ‘home’ in these pictures, and every other home I’ve had in my lifetime thus far.
Home is where you make it. Each is more than just a shelter, its little pieces in your existence. Mapping out your path, it’s a record of where you’ve been. Although is it? And does it actually matter?
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