Truly, there's no place like home. I think that's one of the many reasons I have been making it a point to go back home (some 60 km away, maybe?) every week. The food is different. The bed is different. The wiring in my brain becomes different, too.

Different, indeed, but in a very good way.

But there's a certain home I haven't been to for a long time; my second home for some five years.

Five years of my life, I spent almost everyday seeing the Oblation statue on my way to class. I never paid it much attention. To me, it was just an art that stood mightily at the center of the university. A symbol of nationalistic sacrifice and freedom. An inanimate object.

When I was new to the university, seeing the Oblation meant the world to me. Weeks, months, and years later, it became the symbol of toxic experiences that I would rather ignore it most of the time. Other times I'd look at it in wonder: "How did I end up here?"

I wanted nothing more than get away from uni. It was toxic and exhausting. It drained me not only mentally but emotionally, too. I learned to skip meals, to not sleep, to keep my frustrations all bottled up. Like they said, getting in was easy, getting out was not.

I wanted to get out, and I did. But the moment I did, I wanted to come back. Like home, the food is different. The bed, though most of the time uncomfortable, was different. The way I think, talk, becomes different, too (the judgment is less harsh, if not non-existent). 

Then came an opportunity I can't reject: the annual Feb Fair.

Remember one of my illustrated stories, where I recounted an experience I'd had during one of my first Feb Fairs?

This year, as if it's some sort of tradition already, I went back to uni to attend the Feb Fair with old friends and classmates. It was a blast!

There were the fun and scary rides (that didn't operate this year due to an accident), the many interesting kiosks, the food stalls, and the many families hanging around. There were the bands, and the talent shows. Ah, it was a feast!

Then there was the yearly Elbikon (an arts and comics convention) and the many talented artists. I was even inspired to paint by one of them.

...being five years old all over again and thinking that pine trees were soft. And asking your father to stop by the highway and looking up at these trees up close. Going home feels like being ten years old again and wanting nothing more than spend quality time with playmates.

An hour away from home feels like eternity, but an hour back home doesn't feel like it's enough. Ah, writing this makes me want to come back home!