You arrive. Maybe with others, or maybe by yourself. A bag full of flags and pins and stickers, or a face covered in paint or glitter, or perhaps all you’ve brought is yourself. It doesn’t matter. You could have grown up around the corner from here and have been going to this parade since you knew who you were. Or, it’s your first time. The feeling stays the same; the lightness in your head and stomach, a buzz that vibrates to the tips of your fingers. The anticipation lingers. Maybe you have the map already pulled up on your phone, or you just hoped that you would figure out the way. 

You end up following the footsteps of each other, marching in sync. You trust that the person in front of you knows where they’re going. You trust each other to go the right way. You all smile and wave and nod to each other, strangers becoming friends for just a few seconds. The energy rises and bounces against each of you, nervous chatter getting louder and louder as you get closer. You could already be regretting the shoes you wore. Or maybe you forgot to bring a water bottle with you. Even if you’re the most prepared person in the world, that pulsing excitement-anxiety is electric. Want, Want, Want beats under your chest. The fear of disappointment is there – that even here, you won't belong. It worms in your ear, trying to get you to listen. But you don’t. You keep moving forward.

The parade falls into view. Colours and people dance in front of your eyes, kaleidoscopes materialised. The street underneath is gone, replaced by the crowd that moves and sways as one. A painted dragon that sits in the middle of the town that you are a part of, its scales the colour of rainbows waving in the sun. Your chest swells, no matter how many times you’ve been before. Singing and dancing and marching and laughing and everything. Flags stream in the air, attached to plastic poles or lifted by arms. You see yours, and you can’t help but point it out and grin like an idiot. Me! That’s me! You join the crowd, and none of it matters anymore. The lack of face paint, the pinch in your shoes, the forgotten water bottle, whatever worries or concerns or fears you brought with you are drowned out by the sound.

It doesn’t matter what country or city or town or village you’ve come from. It doesn’t matter where you’re going after. All that matters is that moment. The movement of the crowd, the jostled bodies that are packed together by choice. The person to your left might speak a completely different language to you, the person to your right could be behind on rent. But in that moment, you smile together, you march together, you are together. You’ve never felt so amazingly alike yet so incredibly unique at the same time.

These people are your home. 

Pride is your home.