‘Home is the place where it feels right to walk around without shoes’ ~ Unknown.
What constitutes a feeling of home, a feeling of belonging to a place?
Where do you even consider home to be?
There is no automatic answer to that question for me. The last 4 years have been spent in limbo, just hovering and not putting down any roots, no sense of permanency. My possessions remain in boxes, suitcases always lingering somewhere and not daring to get comfortable as I know where I am is only a temporary measure.
Each year at University was spent in a different place (shifting from halls of residence, to a shared house, to an apartment with my boyfriend, each yearly rents then late 2009 traveling). This constant shifting means I haven’t felt truly settled since my childhood. I can happily say ‘that’s my apartment’, but ‘that’s my home’ I can’t let those words leave my lips and honestly mean it.
I long for a place that feels like I belong there, where I can be surrounded by everything that is mine, my entire book collection can sit on their own shelves reminding me of all the fictitious places I’ve visited. Walls dashed with paint in shades that are my choice, a place with a collection of memories and walls that can attest to being more than a meager slice of my history. Somewhere I can start adding personal touches, buying furniture for and not worry about moving things the next year. Finding the perfect reading spot and which corner of the room ‘feels right’ for my desk.
I’ve felt home to be a sanctuary on the days where you need somewhere to hide away from the world. Somewhere you don’t have to put on a show. No one is going to mind if you’re not deemed Vogue-worthy and slopping around your lair in oversized t-shirts and sweats. You can be on your worst behavior – feeling irritable and unsociable – and get away with it. The way your home sees you is your natural state, and that’s perfectly okay.
‘Coming home’ must be a marvelous feeling.