I have a house but not home. It doesn't matter how big a house is, but what matters is how happy a home is. I have a shelter but I can't call that place my home because according to me home is a place where one wants to go at the end of the day. But, if you ask me I don't want to return to the place where I just sleep, eat and rest. I truly envy the people who crave to go home. I never get the same comfort at that place like others do. The unending quarrels of the family members. The hatred for each other in the people breathing under same roof is unable for me to bear. I don't want to stay in that place for long. Even the silence seems to swallow me. Home for others, is a place to relax, comfort and hide themselves from problems and worries. But, in my case. It's totally contrary. Being in home for a longer time makes me feel depressed. I find an escape from my own home.