This post is called home. It could easily be called victory or relief or finally, too. It’s been a hard battle. Endless forms, fees, couches and bags. But maybe it’s all worth it because I have a place to stumble back into at 11:53 pm, a place where I know the location of all my belongings, a place where I’m not afraid to intrude. My room is mine and it feels like home and it looks like me.
Home has been an ambiguous idea to me for a long time. Is it a feeling, a place, a person? I’ve hopped around a lot and suffered serious restlessness a lot. ‘Home’ became a sort of mythical idea that I made sure everyone knew I did not relate to. ‘Home’ became tainted by the romance of mystery; I was pretty sure didn’t exist anymore.
I still don’t know if it is something in particular, or entirely subjective. I just know I spend a lot of time falling in love with places instead of falling in love with people. Maybe home is something in common between a place and a person.
At least I now have a place to run to without wanting to escape. My humble little home is a bit of me and I am not ready to give up on my romance with Waterloo and the city of London.