Zorba the Hutt (zorbathut) wrote,
Zorba the Hutt
zorbathut

home

re: this (yes folks, it's another long semi-related comment that I decided to post on my journal and subject all of you to!)

I don't really have a home. I mean, I have a place to live, obviously. But I don't have any place I can point to and call "home". Seattle is . . . Seattle is pain and memories. And friends, and Dick's, and so on. But I don't call it home. I don't live here. I don't have any intention of living here. Home is a place you look forward to going because you feel safe there, or just because you want to be here, and what it all comes down to is that the only reasons I want to be in Seattle are the people who happen to call it home.

My respective houses don't count. My mom's house certainly isn't home. I feel out of place here. I feel like a guest, like someone who doesn't unpack because he knows he's leaving soon. I look at my scifi collection and make sure it's all neatly ordered and I feel like I'm doing it for someone else. Because in a way I am - I'm doing it for the person I'll be in a few months.

My dad's house is even worse. I slept on the futon because the place that used to be my room (the smallest room in the house. With a heating vent in it. If you opened the window, the freeway noise kept you awake. If you didn't, it was insanely hot. One night I went to the garage, got a roll of duct tape, and taped it closed. This worked for about a month before it started falling off - the vent was on the ceiling. I got sick of trying to replace it or rebuild it - for some reason nothing worked. Eventually I unscrewed the vent, pulled it out of the ceiling, and taped the *top* of it shut. Worked like a charm. Never told my dad.) where was I? Oh yeah. I slept on the futon because the place that used to be my room was now rented out. Though the person wasn't there. And the old guest room was converted into a TV room. That's not a home.

Oberlin isn't a home. They kick me out every year, multiple times :P I can't go there to recuperate, because either I'm there or I'm not allowed to be. I can't spread out and make changes. I can't wander around and go to sleep on the couch. I can't throw parties. Not home.

The only other vague possibility is DC . . . which, while I'd like to call it a home, I really can't. It's a place I can run if I really need to . . . but it's not *my* home. It's just *a* home.

I guess that's why I feel sort of drifting in some ways. I don't have any place I can put down roots and live. I'm either at school or away from my stuff. Or both.

She doesn't remember her home . . . but I don't really have a home to remember. Not one that I really call home.
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