This time when I went home, I felt like I was carrying tiny shards of myself. Home proved to be a more powerful healing process than I ever imagined. Every corner of my house, the golden curtains fluttering in the breeze created by the gentle whirring of the ceiling fan, the tiny white flowers in the balcony planted so carefully by my mother, all echoed of the years spent growing up here. On the last evening before leaving home, I wanted to drink in the sound of city traffic, the music ensuing from my neighbour's living room, the smell from every nook and corner of my house and I wanted to carry every bit of 'home', of the memory of growing up with me. Leaving home was difficult, knowing I was carrying the pieces of myself back again to another city; the pieces that I had so carefully put together, only to realize that they all came apart the moment I left. Well, I suppose growing up should have taught me at least to pick up the pieces and move on and to make sure no one but me would see the cracks in between.