When you ask someone what home means to them their answers tend to have one thing in common, they like describing the feeling of the safety and coziness from between the walls. To me home doesn’t just mean the comfort of the indoors, it means the unknown of the outdoors. My window doesn’t just hold the landscape from outside, it holds a story. The river twists through century old fig trees, creating a slow, calm murmur as it flows downstream. Animal footprints dot the rolling green hills, belonging to bandicoots, possums and other pass byers. In the middle of it all is a cactus. It stays through the storms, the strong chasing wind, the bright sunlight. Why is it here? It doesn’t belong. Everyday I see it out of my window, still, unbothered, watching the world go by. I begin to wonder if the cactus has a story, just like the rest of its neighbours? If it’s even a cactus after all.