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‘There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort’ – Jane Austen 

Growing up I believed home was confined to the idea of an address; a building constructed for human habitation.

As a child, comfort was when I would fake being sick on the couch just to watch cartoons and be waited on by the smell of beef noodles. It was getting my hair brushed as black beauty began to play on the VCR player. Being home meant getting into my pyjamas and curling up by the fire in my own house with the fluffy and cuddly security guard with four paws.

As I grow I’ve come to the realisation that words cannot be taken back, promises are more sacred and time is limited. Comfort is watching the sun retire for the night over the horizon and feeling him lean into me as the temperature plummets. It’s seeing the smile blossom on my little sister’s face as she saddles her pony up for the first time.

I’m sorry to say, but I have to disagree with the beautiful and witty Jane Austen.

Home cannot be defined by a physical area. Being truly at home is the feeling of comfort.  

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