Almost a month after being back home, perspectives in life do change. The house one called home, is now a cage, in its all physical attributes. Peering through the hardened gates and barred windows, I live in what seemed a house of prison. Like a canary, clipped of its wings, chained to its cage, I could barely feel freedom.
As I walked down streets, it seems I’m exuding an aura, with all signs pointing at me, shouting, “Hey, here’s an easy prey for you!!” Day and night, I am asked to live in fear, and wary of whatever, bad incidents that may happen the next second.
Is this what is called home?
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