Family?

Family? What is it? Is it just a blood relation? Few have the privilege to kiss their mother on the cheek, while few cry on her grave. Few have the privilege to share everything with their mother, while few don’t even have a mother. There are dysfunctional families. There is even a mediocre position, not the dysfunction but a fake-functional family. Everyone knows it’s not working; everyone pretends that it’s working. Someone in that family tries to make it up while no one else tries to catch it up. Not everyone has a fully functional, beautiful, and dreamy family. It feels good to have such.

Also, the family is not necessarily a blood relation. The person closest to you, the person who feels home to you, is family. You can call them a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, a friend, a cousin, a lover, or whatever you want, they’re not family until they feel home.


We all might not have the privilege to have all the family members every time around us. We can’t all have a fully functional family. But we all do have someone who feels home. They are our last refuge. They are Family.

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penfluky

Writing is not a skill acquired through practice. Not for us, at least. Writing is a phenomenon that occurred to us when we wanted to shout our thoughts out. It occurred when our brains formed a labyrinth of thoughts with no way out. Only way was to break the walls, the walls we constructed in our minds. The walls which stopped us from letting ourselves out. We broke the walls using the most mightiest weapon, the pen. Writing was our way out of that maze. Words and sentences flowed like a stream of some river, which consisted of A2Z instead of H2O. Soon the river filled the brain and the labyrinth was not visible anymore. 

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