Home... and thinking

Home. It's a funny word. I use it freely, casually, to refer to the place I rent, the place I sleep, the house of my parents - hell, I've even used it to refer to the home of a friend with whom I am not staying.

But what is the true home if you have so many?

I am happy in Sweden. I wake in a comfortable bed, cycle to work in whatever clothes I feel like throwing on. I read things which interest me, surrounded by people who challenge and inspire me. I shop for food I enjoy, cook whatever I like and have the freedom to enjoy my spare time.

Here in the house of my parents though, I feel unwilling to go back.

To be here is easy. It's a life filled with people I love and can rely on. In Sweden life is different. I don't understand a lot of the world around me, linguistically or socially. The people around me are not close friends, although I feel that they could be.

I don't think I love the country as much as I should. I know it's only been four months and that moving abroad is difficult but it really IS difficult.

Perhaps I'm weak, or allow my weakness to rule in too many instances.