Sydney. After years of the place being "home", it no longer held for him the excitement it once had held. There was nothing new anymore; he no longer felt a sense of awe as he swept a gaze along the iconic skyline - along the Harbour Bridge, over the crests of the Opera House. He no longer felt anonymous amongst the silhouetted skyscrapers, nor free to stumble amongst the crowds of busy metropolitan streets.

Sometimes, he would catch himself staring into the depths of the stagnant harbour, scouring it for intrigue. He wanted adventure; to sail the seven seas, fall down the rabbit hole, discover a cave filled with treasure.

Like the protective arms of his parents, Sydney would always be there if need-be. But birds must eventually leave the nest, fly away, be free. This place wasn't for him. Not anymore.

During his time here in Sydney, he had discovered there was really two types of people; those who dreamt and reached for the stars - and those content with living this mundane life. It had taken him a long time to find his profile – and now, unlike the simple pendulum, he had nothing bringing him back.

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The seasonal migration was upon him then, though he flew against the flocks; northward bound. Though he was yet to arrive, angst dwelled in the depth of his stomach. This was the hardest part of leaving, feeling this yearning; this magnetic pull home. But who's to say this place couldn't be his home now?

True to its name, "the city that never sleeps" was forever functional. But this functionality never really felt tangible to him; more the ghosts of lost souls or those who died too young. This was a feeling that was virtually non-existent in Sydney, where a single shared gaze could find you perhaps years later waiting at the altar, or laughing side by side.

Maybe he hadn't quite found his home yet, perhaps he still needed to look. So with that, he stretched his wings and resumed his search.

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He had tried to create a nest amongst New York's branches, but it had been to no avail. So he continued on, and as before, felt the same crippling anxiety; though he did not have to fight the flock in its motion this time. He was supported as he journeyed along his road less travelled, though an unfamiliar feeling hung over him. Perhaps it was anticipation?

Picturesque, some called the cobbled streets of "the city of light". Dainty, some called those who resided within these walls. Intriguing, people often labelled the colourful history.

But he felt differently. The cobbled streets felt unnatural to him; he had stumbled across them many a time. While people navigated their worn complexion, he was perpetually lost – crossing the river from bank to bank. He found the locals, the "Parisians", to be distasteful and rude – snub-nosed at his subordinate attempt at their tongue. They would roll their eyes at him as he stumbled over his words asking for directions; spitefully opting instead for English. Sometimes he would find himself standing by a plaque inscribed something like "vive la nation" which he could only really translate into something overtly patriotic. Often, he would walk amongst the city's many bakeries and picture Marie Antoinette's famous proclamation: "then let them eat cake!"

While oblivion is something of the Australian way, never once had he met an ungenerous soul. After walking in circles for hours, a passer-by would often sense the distress and direct you to the point of interest - or something better. Though the streets often had some work to be done, they were wide and well signposted. A feat that it seemed his current residence was yet to accomplish.

The grandfather clock beside him struck five times; its weighty pendulum swinging back and forth with mesmerizing motion. There was something about it that gave him a sense of fate - no matter how often you watched the pendulum swing, expecting it to continue on upwards, it would always swing back to its equilibrium. That was how it was meant to be. So again, he drew out his wings and continued on his migration, back, just like the clock.

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As the crow flies, the distance is 16,990 kilometres. By plane, the duration is 21 hours and 35 minutes. By ocean liner, 26 days.

But distance and time are irrelevant once you've arrived home- not when you've been absent for what seems like forever. It doesn't bother you if you get stuck in cues, or the taxis all seem to have waddled off. All that matters is that you're home. You smell the sweet, familiar air; gulp down the flavourless water. It's all the way you like it - the way with which you were raised.

In a life where you're born, raised and work until you die, perfection doesn't necessarily need to be perfect. It just needs to be enough. Sometimes, the most important thing isn't adventure, but company, family. Home.

Sydney was his home, and at that moment, he decided that it was perfect. Perfect enough for him.