I often find myself dwelling on home: my small piece of solace in the North Atlantic.

Whilst an ocean away, it feels as though it’s worlds apart from this reality to which I am condemned and exiled not by choice, but sheer circumstance. When I feel as though the walls are closing in on me, as if there’s no hope to be felt in this unrelenting sea of people I know I really don’t belong to, I think of home. To picture the endless green glens of Antrim, to walk along the old harbor at Newcastle and to see her longing once more. Often times you long for home and your heart yearns to see the rolling green hills again, but you know that you can never really go back. She calls you home, yet you’ll never answer. All home really is at this point is a distant memory, which one can long to relive, but can never return to.

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