Madrid felt like home, which felt like paradise.
When most people talk about paradise, it is somewhere far from home. Somewhere they run away to, where they can close their eyes and smell new scents and hear new noises.

The brightly feather birds singing magical songs, the brush of palm leaves against each other, the hush that falls over snow when the northern lights show up

As someone who grew up with a tenuous concept of what home is, being in Madrid and feeling like I belonged more there than I had anywhere else in my short life was euphoric. Finding somewhere, that in 72 hours, felt like I needed to be there was more paradise than any escape could ever be.

The motherly rattling shake of the metro early in the morning, the warmth of all the people jammed side-by-side, the rumble of the streets at night all alive with talking

That’s what this blog post’s focus is: what finding home is like, even knowing that you must give it up.

The thirst that drives you to go back, to find anything that even touches on the feeling of belonging.

Here are pictures from the last weeks I spent at home.

The fever dream fantasy was real, and I loved every second of it.