I am a child of nomads.  Well, that is not entirely true.  I inhabit one of the fastest growing cities in one of the fastest growing countries in the world and my life is far from that led by a wandering tribe.  But the similarity between me and a child born into a nomadic tribe is that I constantly move.  I have moved homes a total of 18 times (I just realised I ran out of fingers to count the number of homes I have had!!).  I have moved homes, cities, countries even.  And with each move, I think I tend to get a little more bitter.  Don’t get me wrong, I am not averse to change of environment, space and people.  I absolutely love losing old friends and being forced to make new ones, it is such an awesome challenge!  Makes me realise why I am commitment phobic.

I remember every single move.  Whether it was leaving the first floor house where I learnt to ride a bike and crashed into the gate after staying on the seat for a total of 5 seconds or the gorgeous 4000 square foot of space where I lost my heart (and a lot else) to my high-school boyfriend.  I remember every home, however temporary the stay.  There was the bathroom where I shared my first smoke, with my mirror and the bathtub when I first watched drops of red flow out of my wrists, fascinated by the mixed sensation of seeing beauty and feeling pain. There was the house that housed my own “penthouse” and the home with a Romeo and Juliet-esque balcony.  There was the house where I last saw my brother, the last place where we were an entire family.  Then, there was my first home away from home, in a foreign country, with a foreign love.  There were so many.  There is so much more attached to each of them…memories, images, moments.  All safely stored in my brain and within each of their walls.

I don’t know what it is about a place that can bind someone to it.  I mean, after all, what is a house?  How can one be so bound by walls made of concrete and covered in paint?  How can a bed of wood hold within its confines some of the warmest memories ever experienced?  How can a dining table that has fed all of my friends and lovers mean more to me than they do today?  How can the little imaginary tree-house that was housed in the loft above my cupboard, where I believed that if I donned my favourite monkey cap and wrote endless rubbish, I would transform into one of the most famous writers of all time, be the one place I still I wish I had to run to when all is not right in my life?

I guess it isn’t all about the space.  Or the craftsmanship and comfort of the furniture.  Or the neigbourhood and the amount of sunshine coming into the windows.  It is who you meet in that house, who you coyly toss your head for when you prance down the streets, who you passionately kiss under the tree that hides you from your possessive brother’s sight, and who you fall back in love with on a rainy afternoon when your mother is asleep.  These are those you cannot ever forget, no matter how hard you try.  So how many times you may move, they move with you.

Or so I believe.

But, what happens when you are left behind?  The first sign of someone leaving tears you apart.

What happens when moving becomes so much a part of your existence that staying in one place becomes impossible?  You are constantly on the lookout for the first ticket out of where you are.

What happens then?  I don’t quite know yet.

But I do know this - I hope I am freed from the clutches of my nomadic nature someday. I hope I do find a home someday.  And I hope this home teaches me what none of the others have - how to love one thing and hold onto it, and never leave it.