Going home

Currently listening to Cat Power. She's amazing, her voice has a drowsy but melodic tone...it puts me in a mellow, detached mood.

Suitable for what I'm about to write about next..."home." It's Thanksgiving time and my roommates have gone home and I'm the only one left in my room right now. My door is open, and almost every single person who passes by asks: "Why aren't you home?", "Well, when are you going home?" And there goes another one.

I don't get it. Home is so often depicted as a singular permanent thing, and that singular permanent thing most likely refers to the house you were raised in or the house your family resides in. It feels different to be going back. It's not that I don't want to go back to San Jose, I do. I really can't wait to see familiar faces after 2 straight months of "Hi! What's your name? Not that I give a fuck, I'll probably forget it in 10 seconds. It's nice to meet you too."

Regardless, I have met great people here in L.A. But I ramble..home to me is not permanent. The word "home" is degraded by its usual interpretation as the location where one lives most of her lie. Typo, I meant life. But "home" shouldn't be associated with a place, it should be associated with a feeling. It's where you feel you belong, where you are most comfortable, where you can be yourself and live without external restrictions. Of course, this can include the area where you were raised, but is not exclusive to it. It's important to distinguish "home" not as a geographic location on a map, but as a spiritual place for yourself. A home has no boundaries.

Go ahead, brand me a desperate teenager trying to create meaning from finally leaving the cuckoo's nest, but it's pretty much as real as it'll get. Right now, I've never felt more at home. Oh the miracles of Cat Power. Well, it's almost 7 p.m. now. I bid you farewell before I miss my train ride "home."

Tactfully,
T.J.